THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


Dr.  Blanche  C.  Brown 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 

VILLA   HUBEIN,  and  Other  Storia 
THE   ISLAND    PHARISEES 
THE  MAN   OF   PROPERTY 
THE   COUNTRY  HOUSE 
FRATERNITY 
THE   PATRICIAN 
THE  DARK   FLOWER 


A  COMMENTARY 

A  MOTLEY 

THE  INN   OF  TRANQUILLITY 

THE   LITTLE   MAN,    and  Other  Satiret 


PLAYS:  FIRST  SERIES 

and  Separately 
THE   SILVER   BOX 
JOY 
STRIFE 

PLAYS:  SECOND  SERIES 

and  Separately 
THE   ELDEST   SON 
THE   LITTLE   DREAM 
JUSTICE 

PLAYS:  THIRD  SERIES 

and  Separately 
THE   FUGITIVE 
THE   PIGEON 
THE   MOB 


MOODS,    SONGS,   AND   DOGGERELS 


THE   LITTLE   MAN 

AND 

OTHER  SATIRES 


THE  LITTLE  MAN 

AND 

OTHER  SATIRES 


BY 

JOHN    GALSWORTHY 


NEW  YORK 

CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 
1915 


COPYRIGHT,  1915,  BY 
CHARLES  SCRIBNER'S  SONS 


Published  April,  1915 


PR 


TO 
H.  W.  NEVINSON 


7G2395 


For  permission  to  reprint  some  of  these  satires  the 
author  is  indebted  to  the  Editors  of  The  Nation 
[English],  Scribner's  Magazine,  and  The  Delineator. 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

THE  LITTLE  MAN 1 

HALL-MARKED 39 

THE  VOICE  OF  ! 59 

THE  DEAD  MAN  ! 69 

WHY  NOT? 75 

HEY-DAY 83 

STUDIES  OF  EXTRAVAGANCE — 

I.    THE  WRITER 89 

II.    THE  CRITIC 103 

III.  THE  PLAIN  MAN 114 

IV.  THE  SUPERLATIVE 125 

V.    THE  PRECEPTOR 134 

VI.    THE  ARTIST 143 

VII.    THE  HOUSEWIFE 152 

VIII.    THE  LATEST  THING 164 

IX.    THE  PERFECT  ONE 172 

X.    THE  COMPETITOR 181 

ix 


x  CONTENTS 

MM 

ABEACADABRA 197 

HATHOR:  A  MEMORY 211 

SEKHET:  A  DREAM 217 

A  SIMPLE  TALE       239 

ULTIMA  THULE  .  255 


THE  LITTLE  MAN 


AUTHOR'S    NOTE 


SINCE  it  is  just  possible  that  some  one  may  think  "  The 
Little  Man"  has  a  deep,  dark  reference  to  the  war,  it 
may  be  as  well  to  state  that  this  whimsey  was  written 
in  October,  1913. 


THE  LITTLE  MAN 

SCENE  I 

Afternoon,  on  the  departure  platform  of  an  Austrian 
railway  station.  At  several  little  tables  outside 
the  buffet  persons  are  taking  refreshment, 
served  by  a  pale  young  waiter.  On  a  seat  against 
the  wall  of  the  buffet  a  woman  of  lowly  station 
is  sitting  beside  two  large  bundles,  on  one  of 
which  she  has  placed  her  baby,  swathed  in  a 
black  shawl. 

WAITER  (approaching  a  table  whereat  sit  an  Eng- 
lish traveller  and  his  wife).  Zwei  Kaffee? 

ENGLISHMAN  (paying).  Thanks.  (To  his  wife,  in 
an  Oxford  voice)  Sugar? 

ENGLISHWOMAN  (in  a  Cambridge  voice).  One. 

AMERICAN  TRAVELLER  (with  field-glasses  and  a 
pocket  camera— from  another  table).  Waiter,  I'd 
like  to  have  you  get  my  eggs.  I've  been  sitting 
here  quite  a  while. 

WAITER.  Yes,  sare. 

GERMAN  TRAVELLER.  Kellner,  bezahlen!  (His 

3 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  i 

voice  is,  like  his  moustache,  stiff  and  brushed  up 
at  the  ends.    His  figure  also  is  stiff  and  his 
hair  a  little  grey;  clearly  once,  if  not  now,  a 
colonel.) 
WAITEK.  Komm'  gleich ! 

(The  baby  on  the  bundle  wails.  The  mother 
takes  it  up  to  soothe  it.  A  young,  red- 
cheeked  Dutchman  at  the  fourth  table  stops 
eating  and  laughs.) 

AMERICAN.  My  eggs!    Get  a  wiggle  on  you! 
WAITER.  Yes,  sare.    (He  rapidly  recedes.) 

(A  LITTLE  MAN  in  a  soft  hat  is  seen  to  the 

right  of  the  tables.    He  stands  a  moment 

looking  after  the  hurrying  waiter,  then  seats 

himself  at  the  fifth  table.) 

ENGLISHMAN  (looking  at  his  watch).  Ten  minutes 

more. 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  Bother! 

AMERICAN  (addressing  them).  'Pears  as  if  they'd 
a  prejudice  against  eggs  here,  anyway. 

(The  English  look  at  him,  but  do  not  speak.) 
GERMAN  (in  creditable  English).  In  these  places 
man  can  get  nothing. 

(The  WAITER  comes  flying  back  with  a  com- 
pote for  the  DUTCH  YOUTH,  who  pays.) 
GERMAN.  Kellner,  bezahlen ! 

4 


sc.  i  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

WAITER.  Eine  Krone  sechzig. 

(The  GERMAN  pays.) 

AMERICAN   (rising,   and  taking  out  his  watch — 
blandly).  See  here!    If  I  don't  get  my  eggs 
before  this  watch  ticks  twenty,  there'll  be  an- 
other waiter  in  heaven. 
WAITER  (flying).  Komm'  gleich! 
AMERICAN  (seeking  sympathy).  I'm  gettin'  kind  of 
mad! 

(The  ENGLISHMAN  halves  his  newspaper  and 
hands  the  advertisement  half  to  his  wife. 
The  BABY  wails.  The  MOTHER  rocks  it. 
The  DUTCH  YOUTH  stops  eating  and 
laughs.  The  GERMAN  lights  a  cigarette. 
The  LITTLE  MAN  sits  motionless,  nursing 
his  hat.  The  WAITER  comes  flying  back 
with  the  eggs  and  places  them  before  the 
AMERICAN.) 

AMERICAN   (putting  away  his  watch).  Good!    I 
don't  like  trouble.    How  much  ? 

(He  pays  and  eats.     The  WAITER  stands  a 
moment  at  the  edge  of  the  platform  and 
passes  his  hand  across  his  brow.    The 
LITTLE  MAN  eyes  him  and  speaks  gently.) 
LITTLE  MAN.  Herr  Ober!  (The  WAITER  turns.) 
Might  I  have  a  glass  of  beer? 
5 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  i 

WAITER.  Yes,  sare. 

LITTLE  MAN.  Thank  you  very  much. 

(The  WAITER  goes.) 

AMERICAN  (pausing  in  the  deglutition  of  his  eggs — 
affably).  Pardon  me,  sir;  I'd  like  to  have  you 
tell  me  why  you  called  that  little  bit  of  a 
feller  "Herr  Ober."    Reckon  you  would  know 
what  that  means?    Mr.  Head  Waiter. 
LITTLE  MAN.  Yes,  yes. 
AMERICAN.  I  smile. 

LITTLE  MAN.  Oughtn't  I  to  call  him  that? 
GERMAN  (abruptly).  Nein — Kellner. 
AMERICAN.  Why,  yes!    Just  "waiter." 

(The  ENGLISHWOMAN  looks  round  her  paper 
for  a  second.  The  DUTCH  YOUTH  stops 
eating  and  laughs.  The  LITTLE  MAN 
gazes  from  face  to  face  and  nurses  his 
hat.) 

LITTLE  MAN.  I  didn't  want  to  hurt  his  feelings. 
GERMAN.  Gott! 

AMERICAN.  In   my   country  we're  vurry  demo- 
cratic— but  that's  quite  a  proposition. 
ENGLISHMAN   (handling  coffee-pot,  to  his  wife). 

More? 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  No,  thanks. 
GERMAN  (abruptly).  These  fellows — if  you  treat 

6 


sc.  i  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

them  in  this  manner,  at  once  they  take  liber- 
ties.   You  see,  you  will  not  get  your  beer. 
(A.s  he  speaks  the  WAITER  returns,  bringing 
the  LITTLE  MAN'S  beer,  then  retires.) 

AMERICAN.  That  'pears  to  be  one  up  to  democ- 
racy. (To  the  LITTLE  MAN)  I  judge  you  go 
hi  for  brotherhood? 

LITTLE  MAN  (startled}.  Oh,  no !    I  never 

AMERICAN.  I  take  considerable  stock  in  Leo  Tol- 
stoi myself.  Grand  man — grand-souled  ap- 
paratus. But  I  guess  you've  got  to  pinch 
those  waiters  some  to  make  'em  skip.  (To  the 
English,  who  have  carelessly  looked  his  way  for 
a  moment)  You'll  appreciate  that,  the  way 
he  acted  about  my  eggs.  (The  English  make 
faint  motions  with  their  chins,  and  avert  their 
eyes.  To  the  WAITER,  who  is  standing  at  the 
door  of  the  buffet)  Waiter !  Flash  of  beer — 
jump,  now ! 

WAITER.  Komm'  gleich ! 

GERMAN.  Cigarren! 

WAITER.  Schon.    (He  disappears.) 

AMERICAN  (affably — to  the  LITTLE  MAN).  Now,  if 
I  don't  get  that  flash  of  beer  quicker'n  you  got 
yours,  I  shall  admire. 

GERMAN  (abruptly).  Tolstoi  is  nothing — nichts! 
No  good!  Ha? 

7 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  i 

AMERICAN  (relishing  the  approach  of  argument). 
Well,  that  is  a  matter  of  temperament.  Now, 
I'm  all  for  equality.  See  that  poor  woman 
there — vurry  humble  woman — there  she  sits 
among  us  with  her  baby.  Perhaps  you'd  like 
to  locate  her  somewhere  else? 

GERMAN  (shrugging).  Tolstoi  is  sentimentalisch. 
Nietzsche  is  the  true  philosopher,  the  only  one. 

AMERICAN.  Well,  that's  quite  in  the  prospectus — 
vurry  stimulating  party — old  Nietzsch — virgin 
mind.  But  give  me  Leo!  (He  turns  to  the 
red-cheeked  youth.)  What  do  you  opine,  sir? 
I  guess  by  your  labels,  you'll  be  Dutch.  Do 
they  read  Tolstoi  in  your  country  ? 
(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.) 

AMERICAN.  That  is  a  vurry  luminous  answer. 

GERMAN.  Tolstoi  is  nothing.  Man  should  himself 
express.  He  must  push — he  must  be  strong. 

AMERICAN.  That  is  so.  In  Amurrica  we  believe 
in  virility;  we  like  a  man  to  expand — to  cul- 
tivate his  soul.  But  we  believe  in  brotherhood 
too;  we're  vurry  democratic.  We  draw  the 
line  at  niggers;  but  we  aspire,  we're  vurry 
high-souled.  Social  barriers  and  distinctions 
we've  not  much  use  for. 

ENGLISHMAN.  Do  you  feel  a  draught? 

8 


sc.  i  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

ENGLISHWOMAN  (with  a  shiver  of  her  shoulder 
toward  the  AMERICAN).  I  do — rather. 

GERMAN.  Wait !    You  are  a  young  people. 

AMERICAN.  That  is  so;  there  are  no  flies  on  us. 
(To  the  LITTLE  MAN,  who  has  been  gazing 
eagerly  from  face  to  face)  Say!  I'd  like  to 
have  you  give  us  your  sentiments  in  relation 
to  the  duty  of  man. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  fidgets,  and  is  about  to 
open  his  mouth.) 

AMERICAN.  For  example — is  it  your  opinion  that 
we  should  kill  off  the  weak  and  diseased,  and 
all  that  can't  jump  around  ? 

GERMAN  (nodding).  Ja,  ja!    That  is  coming. 

LITTLE  MAN  (looking  from  face  to  face).  They 
might  be  me. 

(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.) 

AMERICAN  (reproving  him  with  a  look).  That's 
true  humility.  'Tisn't  grammar.  Now,  here's 
a  proposition  that  brings  it  nearer  the  bone: 
Would  you  step  out  of  your  way  to  help  them 
when  it  was  liable  to  bring  you  trouble  ? 

GERMAN.  Nein,  nein !    That  is  stupid. 

LITTLE  MAN  (eager  but  wistful).  I'm  afraid  not. 
Of  course  one  wants  to 

GERMAN.  Nein,  nein !  That  is  stupid !  What  is 
the  duty? 

9 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  i 

LITTLE  MAN.  There  was  St.  Francis  d'Assisi  and 
St.  Julien  1'Hospitalier,  and 

AMERICAN.  Vurry  lofty  dispositions.  Guess  they 
died  of  them.  (He  rises.)  Shake  hands,  sir 
— my  name  is —  (He  hands  a  card.)  I  am  an 
ice-machine  maker.  (He  shakes  the  LITTLE 
MAN'S  hand.)  I  like  your  sentiments — I  feel 
kind  of  brotherly.  (Catching  sight  of  the 
WAITER  appearing  in  the  doorway).  Waiter, 
where  to  h — 11  is  that  flash  of  beer? 

GERMAN.  Cigarren! 

WAITER.  Komm'  gleich !    (He  vanishes.) 

ENGLISHMAN  (consulting  watch).  Train's  late. 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  Really!    Nuisance! 

(A  station  POLICEMAN,  very  square  and  uni- 
formed, passes  and  repasses.) 

AMERICAN  (resuming  his  seat — to  the  GERMAN). 
Now,  we  don't  have  so  much  of  that  in  Amur- 
rica.  Guess  we  feel  more  to  trust  in  human 
nature. 

GERMAN.  Ah!  ha!  you  will  bresently  find  there 
is  nothing  in  him  but  self. 

LITTLE  MAN  (wistfully).  Don't  you  believe  in 
human  nature  ? 

AMERICAN.  Vurry  stimulating  question.    That  in- 
vites remark.     (He  looks  round  for  opinions. 
The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.) 
10 


BC.I  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

ENGLISHMAN  (holding  out  his  half  of  the  paper  to 
his  wife).  Swap !  (His  wife  swaps.) 

GERMAN.  In  human  nature  I  believe  so  far  as  I 
can  see  him — no  more. 

AMERICAN.  Now  that  'pears  to  me  kind  o'  blas- 
phemy. I'm  vurry  idealistic;  I  believe  in 
heroism.  I  opine  there's  not  one  of  us  settin' 
around  here  that's  not  a  hero — give  him  the 
occasion. 

LITTLE  MAN.  Oh !    Do  you  believe  that  ? 

AMERICAN.  Well !  I  judge  a  hero  is  just  a  per- 
son that'll  help  another  at  the  expense  of  him- 
self. That's  a  vurry  simple  definition.  Take 
that  poor  woman  there.  Well,  now,  she's  a 
heroine,  I  guess.  She  would  die  for  her  baby 
any  old  time. 

GERMAN.  Animals  will  die  for  their  babies.  That 
is  nothing. 

AMERICAN.  Vurry  true.  I  carry  it  further.  I 
postulate  we  would  all  die  for  that  baby  if  a 
locomotive  was  to  trundle  up  right  here  and 
try  to  handle  it.  I'm  an  idealist.  (To  the 
GERMAN)  I  guess  you  don't  know  how  good 
you  are.  (As  the  GERMAN  is  twisting  up  the 
ends  of  his  moustache — to  the  ENGLISHWOMAN) 
I  should  like  to  have  you  express  an  opinion, 
ma'am.  This  is  a  high  subject. 
11 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  i 

X 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  I  beg  your  pardon. 

AMERICAN.  The  English  are  vuny  humanitarian; 
they  have  a  vurry  high  sense  of  duty.  So 
have  the  Germans,  so  have  the  Amurricans. 
(To  the  DUTCH  YOUTH)  I  judge  even  in  your 
little  country  they  have  that.  This  is  a  vurry 
civilised  epoch.  It  is  an  epoch  of  equality 
and  high-toned  ideals.  (To  the  LITTLE  MAN) 
What  is  your  nationality,  sir? 

LITTLE  MAN.  I'm  afraid  I'm  nothing  particular. 
My  father  was  half -English  and  half- American, 
and  my  mother  half-German  and  half-Dutch. 

AMERICAN.  My!  That's  a  bit  streaky,  any  old 
way.  (The  POLICEMAN  passes  again.)  Now, 
I  don't  believe  we've  much  use  any  more  for 
those  gentlemen  in  buttons,  not  amongst  the 
civilised  peoples.  We've  grown  kind  of  mild 
— we  don't  think  of  self  as  we  used  to  do. 
(The  WAITER  has  appeared  in  the  doorway.) 

GERMAN  (in  a  voice  of  thunder).  Cigarren !  Don- 
nerwetter ! 

AMERICAN  (shaking  his  fist  at  the  vanishing 
WAITER).  That  flash  of  beer ! 

WAITER.  Komm'  gleich ! 

AMERICAN.  A  little  more,  and  he  will  join  George 
Washington !    I  was  about  to  remark  when  he 
12 


sc.  i  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

intruded :  The  kingdom  of  Christ  nowadays  is 
quite  a  going  concern.  The  Press  is  vurry 
enlightened.  We  are  mighty  near  to  universal 
brotherhood.  The  colonel  here  (He  indicates 
the  GERMAN),  he  doesn't  know  what  a  lot  of 
stock  he  holds  in  that  proposition.  He  is  a 
man  of  blood  and  iron,  but  give  him  an  oppor- 
tunity to  be  magnanimous,  and  he'll  be  right 
there.  Oh,  sir !  yes. 

(The  GERMAN,  with  a  profound  mixture  of 
pleasure  and  cynicism,  brushes  up  the  ends 
of  his  moustache.) 

LITTLE  MAN.  I  wonder.  One  wants  to,  but  some- 
how   (He  shakes  his  head.) 

AMERICAN.  You  seem  kind  of  skeery  about  that. 
You've  had  experience  maybe.  The  flesh  is 
weak.  I'm  an  optimist — I  think  we're  bound 
to  make  the  devil  hum  in  the  near  future.  I 
opine  we  shall  occasion  a  good  deal  of  trouble 
to  that  old  party.  There's  about  to  be  a  holo- 
caust of  selfish  interests.  We're  out  for  high 
sacrificial  business.  The  colonel  there  with 
old-man  Nietzsch — he  won't  know  himself. 
There's  going  to  be  a  vurry  sacred  oppor- 
tunity. 

(As  he  speaks,  the  voice  of  a  RAILWAY  OFFI- 
CIAL is  heard  in  the  distance  calling  out  in 
13 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  i 

German.    It  approaches,  and  the  words 
become  audible?) 
GERMAN  (starred).  DerTeufel! 

(He  gets  up,  and  seizes  the  bag  beside  him. 
The  STATION  OFFICIAL  has  appeared,  he 
stands  for  a  moment  casting  his  commands 
at  the  seated  group.    The  DUTCH  YOUTH 
also  rises,  and  takes  his  coat  and  hat.     The 
OFFICIAL  turns  on  his  heel  and  retires, 
still  issuing  directions.) 
ENGLISHMAN.  What  does  he  say  ? 
GERMAN.  Our  drain  has  come  in,  de  oder  plat- 
form; only  one  minute  we  haf. 
(All  have  risen  in  a  fluster.) 
AMERICAN.    Now,    that's    vurry  'provoking.    I 
won't  get  that  flash  of  beer. 

(There  is  a  general  scurry  to  gather  coats  and 
hats  and  wraps,  during  which  the  lowly 
woman  is  seen  making  desperate  attempts 
to  deal  with  her  baby  and  the  two  large 
bundles.  Quite  defeated,  she  suddenly  puts 
all  down,  wrings  her  hands,  and  cries  out: 
"HerrJesu!  Hilfe!"  The  flying  proces- 
sion turn  their  heads  at  that  strange  cry.) 
AMERICAN.  What's  that?  Help? 

(He  continues  to  run.    The  LITTLE  MAN 
14 


BC.  ii  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

spins  round,  rushes  back,  picks  up  baby 
and  bundle  on  which  it  was  seated.) 
LITTLE  MAN.  Come  along,  good  woman,  come 
along ! 

(The  woman  picks  up  the  other  bundle  and 
they  run.  The  WAITER,  appearing  in  the 
doorway  with  the  bottle  of  beer,  watches  with 
his  tired  smile) 

SCENE  II 

A  second-class  compartment  of  a  corridor  carriage, 
in  motion.  In  it  are  seated  the  ENGLISHMAN  and 
his  wife,  opposite  each  other  at  the  corridor  end, 
she  with  her  face  to  the  engine,  he  with  his  back. 
Both  are  somewhat  protected  from  the  rest  of  the 
travellers  by  newspapers.  Next  to  her  sits  the 
GERMAN,  and  opposite  him  sits  the  AMERICAN; 
next  the  AMERICAN  in  one  window  corner  is 
seated  the  DUTCH  YOUTH;  the  other  window  cor- 
ner  is  taken  by  the  GERMAN'S  bag.  The  silence 
is  only  broken  by  the  slight  rushing  noise  of  the 
train's  progression  and  the  crackling  of  the  Eng- 
lish newspapers. 

AMERICAN  (turning  to  the  DUTCH  YOUTH).  Guess 
I'd  like  that  winder  raised;  it's  kind  of  chilly 
after  that  old  run  they  gave  us. 
15 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  n 

(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs,  and  goes  through 
the  motions  of  raising  the  window.  The 
English  regard  the  operation  with  uneasy 
irritation.  The  GEKMAN  opens  his  bag, 
which  reposes  on  the  corner  seat  next  him, 
and  takes  out  a  book.) 

AMERICAN.  The  Germans  are  great  readers. 
Vurry  stimulating  practice.  I  read  most 
anything  myself !  (The  GERMAN  holds  up  the 
book  so  that  the  title  may  be  read.)  "Don 
Quixote" — fine  book.  We  Amurricans  take 
considerable  stock  in  old  man  Quixote.  Bit 
of  a  wild-cat — but  we  don't  laugh  at 
him. 
GERMAN.  He  is  dead.  Dead  as  a  sheep.  A  good 

thing,  too. 
AMERICAN.  In  Amurrica  we  have  still  quite  an 

amount  of  chivalry. 

GERMAN.  Chivalry  is  nothing — sentimentalisch. 
In  modern  days — no  good.  A  man  must  push, 
he  must  pull. 

AMERICAN.  So  you  say.  But  I  judge  your  form 
of  chivalry  is  sacrifice  to  the  state.  We  allow 
more  freedom  to  the  individual  soul.  Where 
there's  something  little  and  weak,  we  feel  it 
kind  of  noble  to  give  up  to  it.  That  way  we 
feel  elevated. 

16 


sc.  ii  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

(As  he  speaks  there  is  seen  in  the  corridor 
doorway    the    LITTLE    MAN,    with    the 
WOMAN'S  BABY  stitt  on  his  arm  and  the 
bundle  held  in  the  other  hand.    He  peers 
in  anxiously.    The  English,  acutely  con- 
scious, try  to  dissociate  themselves  from  his 
presence  with  their  papers.    The  DUTCH 
YOUTH  laughs.) 
GERMAN.  Ach!    So! 
AMERICAN.  Dear  me ! 

LITTLE  MAN.  Is  there  room  ?    I  can't  find  a  seat. 
AMERICAN.  Why,  yes !    There's  a  seat  for  one. 
LITTLE  MAN  (depositing  bundle  outside,  and  heav- 
ing BABY).  May  I? 
AMERICAN.  Come  right  in ! 

(The  GERMAN  sulkily  moves  his  bag.  The 
LITTLE  MAN  comes  in  and  seats  himself 
gingerly.) 

AMERICAN.  Where's  the  mother? 
LITTLE  MAN  (ruefully).  Afraid  she  got  left  behind. 
(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.     The  English 
unconsciously   emerge  from   their   news- 
papers.) 

AMERICAN.  My !    That  would  appear  to  be  quite 
a  domestic  incident. 

(The  ENGLISHMAN  suddenly  utters  a  pro- 
found "Ha,  Ha!"  and  disappears  behind 
17 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  n 

his  paper.    And  that  paper  and  the  one 
opposite  are  seen  to  shake,  and  little  squirts 
and  squeaks  emerge.} 
GEEMAN.  And  you  haf  got  her  bundle,  and  her 

baby.    Ha !    (He  cackles  drily.) 
AMERICAN  (gravely).  I  smile.    I  guess  Providence 
has  played  it  pretty  low  down  on  you.    I 
judge  it's  acted  real  mean. 

(The  BABY  wails,  and  the  LITTLE  MAN  jigs 
it  with  a  sort  of  gentle  desperation,  looking 
apologetically  from  face  to  face.  His  wist- 
ful glance  renews  the  fire  of  merriment 
wherever  it  alights.  The  AMERICAN  alone 
preserves  a  gravity  which  seems  incapable 
of  being  broken.) 

AMERICAN.  Maybe   you'd   better   get   off   right 
smart  and  restore  that  baby.    There's  noth- 
ing can  act  madder  than  a  mother. 
LITTLE  MAN.  Poor  thing;  yes !    What  she  must 
be  suffering ! 

(A  gale  of  laughter  shakes  the  carriage.  The 
English  for  a  moment  drop  their  papers, 
the  better  to  indulge.  The  LITTLE  MAN 
smiles  a  wintry  smik.) 

AMERICAN  (in  a  lull).  How  did  it  eventuate? 
LITTLE  MAN.  We  got  there  just  as  the  train  was 
going  to  start;  and  I  jumped,  thinking  I  could 
18 


sc.n  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

help  her  up.    But  it  moved  too  quickly,  and 
— and — left  her. 

(The  gale  of  laughter  blows  up  again.) 

AMERICAN.  Guess  I'd  have  thrown  the  baby  out. 

LITTLE  MAN.  I  was  afraid  the  poor  little  thing 
might  break. 

(The  BABY  wails;  the  LITTLE  MAN  heaves 
it;  the  gale  of  laughter  blows.) 

AMERICAN  (gravely).  It's  highly  entertaining — not 
for  the  baby.  What  kind  of  an  old  baby  is  it, 
anyway?  (He  sniffs.)  I  judge  it's  a  bit — 
niffy. 

LITTLE  MAN.  Afraid  I've  hardly  looked  at  it  yet. 

AMERICAN.  Which  end  up  is  it  ? 

LITTLE  MAN.  Oh!  I  think  the  right  end.  Yes, 
yes,  it  is. 

AMERICAN.  Well,  that's  something.  Guess  I 
should  hold  it  out  of  winder  a  bit.  Vurry 
excitable  things,  babies ! 

ENGLISHWOMAN  (galvanized).  No,  no! 

ENGLISHMAN  (touching  her  knee).  My  dear ! 

AMERICAN.  You  are  right,  ma'am.  I  opine  there's 
a  draught  out  there.  This  baby  is  precious. 
We've  all  of  us  got  stock  in  this  baby  in  a  man- 
ner of  speaking.  This  is  a  little  bit  of  univer- 
sal brotherhood.  Is  it  a  woman  baby  ? 
19 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  n 

LITTLE  MAN.  I — I  can  only  see  the  top  of  its 
head. 

AMERICAN.  You  can't  always  tell  from  that. 
It  looks  kind  of  over-wrapped-up.  Maybe  it 
had  better  be  unbound. 

GERMAN.  Nein,  nein,  nein ! 

AMERICAN.  I  think  you  are  vurry  likely  right, 
colonel.  It  might  be  a  pity  to  unbind  that 
baby.  I  guess  the  lady  should  be  consulted 
in  this  matter. 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  Yes,  yes,  of  course — I 

ENGLISHMAN  (touching  her).  Let  it  be!  Little 
beggar  seems  all  right. 

AMERICAN.  That  would  seem  only  known  to 
Providence  at  this  moment.  I  judge  it  might 
be  due  to  humanity  to  look  at  its  face. 

LITTLE  MAN  (gladly).  It's  sucking  my  finger. 
There,  there — nice  little  thing — there ! 

AMERICAN.  I  would  surmise  you  have  created 
babies  in  your  leisure  moments,  sir  ? 

LITTLE  MAN.  Oh !  no — indeed,  no. 

AMERICAN.  Dear  me !  That  is  a  loss.  (Address- 
ing himself  to  the  carriage  at  large)  I  think 
we  may  esteem  ourselves  fortunate  to  have 
this  little  stranger  right  here  with  us;  throws 
a  vurry  tender  and  beautiful  light  on  human 
20 


sc.  ii  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

nature.  Demonstrates  what  a  hold  the  little 
and  weak  have  upon  us  nowadays.  The 
colonel  here — a  man  of  blood  and  iron — 
there  he  sits  quite  ca'm  next  door  to  it.  (He 
sniffs.)  Now,  this  baby  is  ruther  chastening 
— that  is  a  sign  of  grace,  in  the  colonel — that 
is  true  heroism. 

LITTLE  MAN  (faintly).  I — I  can  see  its  face  a  little 
now. 

(All  bend  forward.) 

AMERICAN.  What  sort  of  a  physiognomy  has  it, 
anyway  ? 

LITTLE  MAN  (still  faintly).  I  don't  see  anything 
but — but  spots. 

GERMAN.  Oh!    Ha!    Pfui! 

(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.) 

AMERICAN.  I  am  told  that  is  not  uncommon 
amongst  babies.  Perhaps  we  could  have  you 
inform  us,  ma'am. 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  Yes,  of  course — only — what  sort 
of 

LITTLE  MAN.  They  seem  all  over  its —  (At  the 
slight  recoil  of  every  one)  I  feel  sure  it's — it's 
quite  a  good  baby  underneath. 

AMERICAN.  That  will  be  ruther  difficult  to  come 
at.    I'm  just  a  bit  sensitive.    I've  vurry  little 
use  for  affections  of  the  epidermis. 
21 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  n 

GERMAN.  Pfui! 

(He  has  edged  away  as  far  as  he  can  get,  and 
is    lighting    a    big    cigar.    The    DUTCH 
YOUTH  draws  his  legs  back.) 
AMERICAN  (also  taking  out  a  cigar).  I  guess  it 
would  be  well  to  fumigate  this  carriage.    Does 
it  suffer,  do  you  think  ? 

LITTLE  MAN  (peering).  Really,  I  don't — I'm  not 
sure — I  know  so  little  about  babies.  I  think 
it  would  have  a  nice  expression — if — if  it 
showed. 

AMERICAN.  Is  it  kind  of  boiled-looking? 
LITTLE  MAN.  Yes — yes,  it  is. 
AMERICAN  (looking  gravely  round).  I  judge  this 
baby  has  the  measles. 

(The  GERMAN  screws  himself  spasmodically 
against  the  arm  of  the  ENGLISHWOMAN'S 
seat.) 

ENGLISHWOMAN.  Poor  little  thing!    Shall  I ? 

(She  half-rises.) 

ENGLISHMAN  (touching  her).  No,  no —  Dash  it ! 
AMERICAN.  I  honour  your  emotion,  ma'am.  It 
does  credit  to  us  all.  But  I  sympathise  with 
your  husband  too.  The  measles  is  a  vurry 
important  pestilence  in  connection  with  a 
grown  woman. 

22 


BC.  ii  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

LITTLE  MAN.  It  likes  my  finger  awfully.    Really, 

it's  rather  a  sweet  baby. 

AMERICAN  (sniffing).  Well,  that  would  appear  to 
be  quite  a  question.  About  them  spots,  now? 
Are  they  rosy  ? 

LITTLE  MAN.  No — o;  they're  dark,  almost  black. 
GERMAN.  Gott!    Typhus! 

(He  bounds  up  onto  the  arm  of  the  ENG- 
LISHWOMAN'S seat.) 

AMERICAN.  Typhus!  That's  quite  an  indisposi- 
tion! 

(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  rises  suddenly,  and 
bolts  out  into  the  corridor.  He  is  followed 
by  the  GERMAN,  puffing  clouds  of  smoke. 
The  English  and  AMERICAN  sit  a  moment 
longer  without  speaking.  The  ENGLISH- 
WOMAN'S face  is  turned  with  a  curious  ex- 
pression— half-pity,  half-fear — toward  the 
LITTLE  MAN.  Then  the  ENGLISHMAN 
gets  up.) 

ENGLISHMAN.  Bit  stuffy  for  you  here,  dear,  isn't 
it? 

(He  puts  his  arm  through  hers,  raises  her,  and 
almost  pushes  her  through  the  doorway. 
She  goes,  still  looking  back.) 
AMERICAN    (gravely).  There's  nothing   I   admire 

23 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  BC.  n 

more'n  courage.    Guess  I'll  go  and  smoke  in 

the  corridor. 

(As  he  goes  out  the  LITTLE  MAN  looks  very 
wistfully  after  him.  Screwing  up  his 
mouth  and  nose,  he  holds  the  BABY  away 
from  him  and  wavers;  then  rising,  he  puts 
it  on  the  seat  opposite  and  goes  through  the 
motions  of  kiting  down  the  window. 
Having  done  so  he  looks  at  the  BABY,  who 
has  begun  to  wail.  Suddenly  he  raises  his 
hands  and  clasps  them,  like  a  child  praying. 
Since,  however,  the  BABY  does  not  stop 
wailing,  he  hovers  over  it  in  indecision; 
then,  picking  it  up,  sits  down  again  to 
dandle  it,  with  his  face  turned  toward  the 
open  window.  Finding  that  it  still  wails, 
he  begins  to  sing  to  it  in  a  cracked  little 
voice.  It  is  charmed  at  once.  While  he  is 
singing,  the  AMERICAN  appears  in  the  cor- 
ridor. Letting  down  the  passage  window, 
he  stands  there  in  the  doorway  with  the 
draught  blowing  his  hair  and  the  smoke  of 
his  cigar  all  about  him.  The  LITTLE 
MAN  stops  singing  and  shifts  the  shawl 
higher,  to  protect  the  BABY'S  head  from 
the  draught.) 

AMERICAN   (gravely).  This  is  the  most  sublime 

24 


sc.  in  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

spectacle  I  have  ever  envisaged.  There  ought 
to  be  a  record  of  this.  (The  LITTLE  MAN  looks 
at  him,  wondering.)  We  have  here  a  most 
stimulating  epitome  of  our  marvellous  ad- 
vance toward  universal  brotherhood.  You 
are  typical,  sir,  of  the  sentiments  of  modern 
Christianity.  You  illustrate  the  deepest  feel- 
ings in  the  heart  of  every  man.  (The  LITTLE 
MAN  rises  with  the  BABY  and  a  movement  of 
approach.)  Guess  I'm  wanted  in  the  dining- 
car.  (He  vanishes.) 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  sits  down  again,  but  back 
•    to  the  engine,  away  from  the  draught,  and 

looks  out  of  the  window,  patiently  jogging 

the  BABY  on  his  knee.) 

SCENE  III 

An  arrival  platform.  The  LITTLE  MAN,  with  the 
BABY  and  the  bundle,  is  standing  disconsolate, 
while  travellers  pass  and  luggage  is  being  carried 
by.  A  STATION  OFFICIAL,  accompanied  by  a 
POLICEMAN,  appears  from  a  doorway,  behind 
him. 

OFFICIAL  (consulting  telegram  in  his  hand).  Das 
ist  der  Herr. 

(They  advance  to  the  LITTLE  MAN.) 
25 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  HI 

OFFICIAL.  Sie  haben  einen  Buben  gestohlen  ? 
LITTLE  MAN.  I  only  speak  English  and  Ameri- 
can. 
OFFICIAL.  Dies  ist  nicht  Ihr  Bube?    (He  touches 

the  BABY.) 
LITTLE  MAN  (shaking  his  head).  Take  care — it's 

ill.    (The  man  does  not  understand.)    Ill — the 

baby 

OFFICIAL  (shaking  his  head).  Verstehe  nicht.    Dis 

is  nod  your  baby  ?    No  ? 
LITTLE  MAN  (shaking  his  head  violently).  No,  it 

is  not.    No. 
OFFICIAL  (tapping  the  telegram).  Gut!    You  are 

'rested.    (He  signs  to  the  POLICEMAN,   who 

takes  the  LITTLE  MAN'S  arm.) 
LITTLE   MAN.  Why?     I  don't   want  the  poor 

baby. 
OFFICIAL  (lifting  the  bundle).  Dies  ist  nicht  Ihr 

Gepack — pag  ? 
LITTLE  MAN.  No. 
OFFICIAL.  Gut.    You  are  'rested. 
LITTLE  MAN.  I  only  took  it  for  the  poor  woman. 

I'm  not  a  thief — I'm — I'm 

OFFICIAL  (shaking  head).    Verstehe  nicht. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  tries  to  tear  his  hair. 
The  disturbed  BABY  wails.) 
26 


BC.  m  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

LITTLE  MAN  (dandling  it  as  best  he  can).  There, 

there — poor,  poor ! 
OFFICIAL.  Halt  still !    You  are  'rested.    It  is  all 

right. 

LITTLE  MAN.  Where  is  the  mother  ? 
OFFICIAL.  She  comm  by  next  drain.    Das  tele- 
gram say:  Halt  einen  Herrn  mit  schwarzem 
Buben  and  schwarzem  Gepack.     'Rest  gentle- 
man mit  black  baby  und  black — pag. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  turns  up  his  eyes  to 

heaven.) 
OFFICIAL.  Komm  mit  us. 

(They  take  the  LITTLE  MAN  toward  the  door 
from  which  they  have  come.  A  voice  stops 
them.) 

AMERICAN  (speaking  from  as  far  away  as  may  be). 
Just  a  moment ! 

(The  OFFICIAL  stops;  the  LITTLE  MAN  also 
stops  and  sits  down  on  a  bench  against  the 
wall.  The  POLICEMAN  stands  stolidly 
beside  him.  The  AMERICAN  approaches 
a  step  or  two,  beckoning;  the  OFFICIAL 
goes  up  to  him.) 

AMERICAN.  Guess    you've    got    an    angel    from 
heaven  there !    What's  the  gentleman  in  but- 
tons for  ? 
OFFICIAL.  Was  ist  das? 

27 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  m 

AMERICAN.  Is  there  anybody  here  that  can 
understand  Amurrican  ? 

OFFICIAL.  Verstehe  nicht. 

AMERICAN.  Well,  just  watch  my  gestures.  I  was 
saying  (he  points  to  the  LITTLE  MAN,  then 
makes  gestures  of  flying)  you  have  an  angel 
from  heaven  there.  You  have  there  a  man  in 
whom  Gawd  (he  points  upward)  takes  quite 
an  amount  of  stock.  This  is  a  vurry  precious 
man.  You  have  no  call  to  arrest  him  (he  makes 
the  gesture  of  arrest).  No,  sir.  Providence  has 
acted  pretty  mean,  loading  off  that  baby  on 
him  (he  makes  the  motion  of  dandling).  The 
little  man  has  a  heart  of  gold.  (He  points  to 
his  heart,  and  takes  out  a  gold  coin.) 

OFFICIAL  (thinking  he  is  about  to  be  bribed).  Aber, 
das  ist  zu  viel ! 

AMERICAN.  Now,  don't  rattle  me !  (Pointing  to 
the  LITTLE  MAN)  Man  (pointing  to  his  heart) 
Herz  (pointing  to  the  coin)  von  Gold.  This  is 
a  flower  of  the  field — he  don't  want  no  gentle- 
man in  buttons  to  pluck  him  up.  (A  little 
crowd  is  gathering,  including  the  two  English, 
the  GERMAN,  and  the  DUTCH  YOUTH.) 

OFFICIAL.  Verstehe  absolut  nichts.  (He  taps  the 
telegram.)  Ich  muss  mein  duty  do. 

AMERICAN.  But  I'm  telling  you.  This  is  a  good 

28 


sc.  ra  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

man.    This  is  probably  the  best  man  on 

Gawd's  airth. 
OFFICIAL.  Das  macht  nichts — gut  or  no  gut,  I 

muss  mein  duty  do.    (He  turns  to  go  toward 

the  LITTLE  MAN.) 
AMERICAN.  Oh !    Vurry  well,  arrest  him;  do  your 

duty.    This  baby  has  typhus. 

(At  the  word  "typhus"  the  OFFICIAL  stops.) 
AMERICAN  (making  gestures).  First-class  typhus, 

black  typhus,  schwarzen  typhus.    Now  you 

have  it.    I'm  kind  o'  sorry  for  you  and  the 

gentleman  in  buttons.    Do  your  duty ! 
OFFICIAL.  Typhus?    Der    Bub' — die    baby   hat 

typhus? 

AMERICAN.  I'm  telling  you. 
OFFICIAL.  Gott  im  Himmel ! 
AMERICAN    (spotting   the   GERMAN   in  'the   little 

throng).  Here's  a  gentleman  will  corroborate 

me. 

OFFICIAL  (much  disturbed,  and  signing  to  the  PO- 
LICEMAN to  stand  clear).  Typhus!    Aber  das 

ist  grasslich ! 
AMERICAN.  I   kind   o'  thought   you'd   feel  like 

that. 
OFFICIAL.  Die  Sanitatsmachine !    Gleich ! 

(A  PORTER  goes  to  get  it.    From  either  side 
the  broken  half-moon  of  persons  stand  gaz- 
29 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  m 

ing  at  the  LITTLE  MAN,  who  sits  un- 
happily dandling  the  BABY  in  the  centre.) 
OFFICIAL  (raising  his  hands).  Was  zu  thun? 
AMERICAN.  Guess  you'd  better  isolate  the  baby. 
(A  silence,  during  which  the  LITTLE  MAN  is 
heard  faintly  whistling  and  clucking  to  the 
BABY.) 

OFFICIAL  (referring  once  more  to  his  telegram). 
'Rest  gentleman  mit  black  baby.  (Shaking 
his  head)  Wir  must  de  gentleman  hold.  (To 
the  GERMAN)  Bitte,  mein  Herr;  sagen  Sie 
ihm,  den  Buben  zu  niedersetzen.  (He  makes 
the  gesture  of  deposit.) 

GERMAN  (to  the  LITTLE  MAN).  He  say:  Put  down 
the  baby. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  shakes  his  head,  and  con- 
tinues to  dandle  the  BABY.) 
OFFICIAL.  Sie  miissen — you  must. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  glowers,  in  silence) 
ENGLISHMAN    (in    background — muttering).  Good 

man! 

GERMAN.  His  spirit  ever  denies;  er  will  nicht. 
OFFICIAL   (again  making  his  gesture).    Aber  er 
muss !    (The  LITTLE  MAN  makes  a  face  at  him.) 
Sag'   Ihm:    Instantly  put  down  baby,  and 
komm'  mit  us. 

(The  BABY  wails.) 
30 


sc.  m  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

LITTLE  MAN.  Leave  the  poor  ill  baby  here  alone  ? 

Be-be-be-  d — d  first ! 

AMERICAN  dumping  onto  a  trunk — with  enthu- 
siasm). Bully! 

(The  English  clap  their  hands;  the  DUTCH 
YOUTH  laughs.  The  OFFICIAL  is  mutter- 
ing, greatly  incensed.) 

AMERICAN.  What  does  that  body-snatcher  say? 
GERMAN.  He  say  this  man  use  the  baby  to  save 

himself  from  arrest.  Very  smart — he  say. 
AMERICAN.  I  judge  you  do  him  an  injustice. 
(Showing  off  the  LITTLE  MAN  with  a  sweep  of 
his  arm.)  This  is  a  vurry  white  man.  He's 
got  a  black  baby,  and  he  won't  leave  it  in  the 
lurch.  Guess  we  would  all  act  noble,  that 
way,  give  us  the  chance. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  rises,  holding  out  the 
BABY,  and  advances  a  step  or  two.  The 
half-moon  at  once  gives,  increasing  its  size; 
the  AMERICAN  climbs  onto  a  higher  trunk. 
The  LITTLE  MAN  retires  and  again  sits 
down.) 

AMERICAN  (addressing  the  OFFICIAL).  Guess  you'd 
better  go  out  of  business  and  wait  for  the 
mother. 

OFFICIAL    (stamping  his  foot).  Die  Mutter  sail 
'rested  be  for  taking  out  baby  mit  typhus. 
31 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  m 

Ha!  (To  the  LITTLE  MAN)  Put  ze  baby 
down!  (The  LITTLE  MAN  smiles.)  Do  you 
'ear? 

AMERICAN  (addressing  the  OFFICIAL).  Now,  see 
here.  'Pears  to  me  you  don't  suspicion  just 
how  beautiful  this  is.  Here  we  have  a  man 
giving  his  life  for  that  old  baby  that's  got  no 
claim  on  him.  This  is  not  a  baby  of  his  own 
making.  No,  sir,  this  a  vurry  Christ-like 
proposition  hi  the  gentleman. 

OFFICIAL.  Put  ze  baby  down,  or  ich  will  gommand 
some  one  it  to  do. 

AMERICAN.  That  will  be  vurry  interesting  to 
watch. 

OFFICIAL  (to  POLICEMAN).  Nehmen  Sie  den  Buben. 
Dake  it  vrom  him. 

(The  POLICEMAN  mutters,  but  does  not.) 

AMERICAN  (to  the  GERMAN).  Guess  I  lost  that. 

GERMAN.  He  say  he  is  not  his  officier. 

AMERICAN.  That  just  tickles  me  to  death. 

OFFICIAL  (looking  round).  Vill  nobody  dake  ze 
Bub'? 

ENGLISHWOMAN  (moving  a  step— faintly).  Yes— 
I 

ENGLISHMAN  (grasping  her  arm).  By  Jove!  Will 
you! 

32 


sc.  in  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

OFFICIAL  (gathering  himself  for  a  great  effort  to 
take  the  BABY,  and  advancing  two  steps).  Zen 

I  gommand  you (He  stops  and  his  voice 

dies  away.)    Zit  dere ! 

AMERICAN.    My!    That's    wonderful.    What    a 
man  this  is !    What  a  sublime  sense  of  duty ! 
(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.    The  OFFICIAL 
turns  on  him,  but  as  he  does  so  the  MOTHER 
of  the  BABY  is  seen  hurrying.) 

MOTHER.  Ach !    Ach !    Mei'  Bubi ! 

(Her  face  is  illumined;  she  is  about  to  rush 

to  the  LITTLE  MAN.) 
OFFICIAL  (to  the  POLICEMAN).  Nimm  die  Frau ! 

(The    POLICEMAN    catches    hold    of    the 

WOMAN.) 

OFFICIAL  (to  the  frightened  WOMAN).  Warum  ha- 
ben  Sie  einen  Buben  mit  Typhus  mit  aus- 
gebracht  ? 
AMERICAN  (eagerly,  from  his  perch).  What  was 

that  ?    I  don't  want  to  miss  any. 
GERMAN.  He  say:    Why  did  you  a  baby  with 

typhus  with  you  bring  out  ? 
AMERICAN.  Well,  that's  quite  a  question.    (He 
takes  out  the  field-glasses  slung  around  him  and 
adjusts  them  on  the  BABY.) 
MOTHER  (bewildered).  Mei'  Bubi — Typhus — aber 

33 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  sc.  m 

Typhus  ?   (She  shakes  her  head  violently.)   Nein, 
nein,  nein !    Typhus ! 
OFFICIAL.  Er  hat  Typhus. 
MOTHER  (shaking  her  head) .  Nein,  nein,  nein ! 
AMERICAN    (looking   through   his   glasses).  Guess 
she's  kind  of  right!    I  judge  the  typhus  is 
where  the  baby's  slobbered  on  the  shawl,  and 
it's  come  off  on  him. 

(The  DUTCH  YOUTH  laughs.) 
OFFICIAL    (turning    on    him  furiously).  Er    hat 

Typhus. 

AMERICAN.  Now,  that's  where  you  slop  over. 
Come  right  here. 

(The  OFFICIAL  mounts,  and  looks  through 

the  glasses.) 

AMERICAN  (to  the  LITTLE  MAN).  Skin  out  the 
baby's  leg.  If  we  don't  locate  spots  on  that, 
it'll  be  good  enough  for  me. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  fumbles  out  the  BABY'S 

little  white  foot.) 

MOTHER.  Mei'  Bubi !    (She  tries  to  break  away.) 
AMERICAN.  White  as  a  banana.     (To  the  OFFICIAL 
—affably)  Guess  you've  made  kind  of  a  fool 
of  us  with  your  old  typhus. 
OFFICIAL.  Lass  die  Frau ! 

(The  POLICEMAN  lets  her  go,  and  she  rushes 
to  her  BABY.) 

34 


sc.  in  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

MOTHEB.  Mei'  Bubi ! 

(The  BABY,  exchanging  the  warmth  of  the 
LITTLE  MAN  far  the  momentary  chill  of 
its  MOTHER,  wails.) 

OFFICIAL  (descending  and  beckoning  to  the  POLICE- 
MAN). Sie  wollen  den  Herrn  accusiren? 

(The  POLICEMAN  takes  the  LITTLE  MAN'S 

arm.) 

AMERICAN.  What's  that?    They  goin'  to  pinch 
him  after  all  ? 

(The  MOTHER,  still  hugging  her  BABY,  who 
has  stopped  crying,  gazes  at  the  LITTLE 
MAN,  who  sits  dazedly  looking  up.  Sud- 
denly she  drops  on  her  knees,  and  with 
her  free  hand  lifts  his  booted  foot  and 
kisses  it.) 

AMERICAN  (waving  his  hat).  'Ra!  'Ra!  (He  de- 
scends swiftly,  goes  up  to  the  LITTLE  MAN, 
whose  arm  the  POLICEMAN  has  dropped,  and 
takes  his  hand.)  Brother,  I  am  proud  to  know 
you.  This  is  one  of  the  greatest  moments  I 
have  ever  experienced.  (Displaying  the  LIT- 
TLE MAN  to  the  assembled  company)  I  think 
I  sense  the  situation  when  I  say  that  we  all  es- 
teem it  an  honour  to  breathe  the  rather  inferior 
atmosphere  of  this  station  here  along  with  our 
little  friend.  I  guess  we  shall  all  go  home  and 
35 


THE  LITTLE  MAN  so.  m 

treasure  the  memory  of  his  face  as  the  whitest 
thing  in  our  museum  of  recollections.  And 
perhaps  this  good  woman  will  also  go  home 
and  wash  the  face  of  our  little  brother  here. 
I  am  inspired  with  a  new  faith  in  mankind. 
We  can  all  be  proud  of  this  mutual  experience; 
we  have  our  share  in  it;  we  can  kind  of  feel 
noble.  Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  wish  to  pre- 
sent to  you  a  sure-enough  saint — only  wants 
a  halo,  to  be  transfigured.  (To  the  LITTLE 
MAN)  Stand  right  up. 

(The  LITTLE  MAN  stands  up  bewildered. 
They  come  about  him.  The  OFFICIAL  bows 
to  him,  the  POLICEMAN  salutes  him.  The 
DUTCH  YOUTH  shakes  his  head  and  laughs. 
The  GERMAN  draws  himself  up  very 
straight,  and  bows  quickly  twice.  The 
ENGLISHMAN  and  his  wife  approach  at 
least  two  steps,  then,  thinking  better  of  it, 
turn  to  each  other  and  recede.  The 
MOTHER  kisses  his  hand.  The  PORTER 
returning  with  the  Sanitdtsmachine,  turns 
it  on  from  behind,  and  its  pinkish  shower, 
goldened  by  a  ray  of  sunlight,  falls  around 
the  LITTLE  MAN'S  head,  transfiguring  it 
as  he  stands  with  eyes  upraised  to  see 
whence  the  portent  comes.) 
36 


BC.  in  THE  LITTLE  MAN 

AMERICAN  (rushing  forward  and  dropping  on  his 
knees).  Hold  on  just  a  minute!  Guess  I'll 
take  a  snap-shot  of  the  miracle.  (He  adjusts 
his  pocket  camera.)  This  ought  to  look  bully ! 


37 


HALL-MARKED 

The  scene  is  the  sitting-room  and  veranda  of  Her 
bungalow. 

The  room  is  pleasant,  and  along  the  back,  where  the 
veranda  runs,  it  seems  all  window,  both  French 
and  casement.  There  is  a  door  right  and  a  door 
left.  The  day  is  bright;  the  time  morning.  HER- 
SELF, dripping  wet,  comes  running  along  the 
veranda,  through  the  French  window,  with  a  wet 
Scotch  terrier  in  her  arms.  She  vanishes  through 
the  door  left.  A  little  pause,  and  LADY  ELLA 
comes  running,  dry,  thin,  refined,  and  agitated. 
She  halts  where  the  tracks  of  water  cease  at  the 
door  left.  A  little  pause,  and  MAUD  comes 
running,  fairly  dry,  stolid,  breathless,  and  drag- 
ging a  bulldog,  wet,  breathless,  and  stout,  by  the 
crutch  end  of  her  en-tout-cas. 

LADY  ELLA.  Don't  bring  Hannibal  in  till  I  know 

where  she's  put  Edward ! 

MAUD  (brutally,  to  HANNIBAL).  Bad  dog!  Bad 
dog! 

(HANNIBAL  snuffles.) 
39 


HALL-MARKED 

LADY  ELLA.  Maud,  do  take  him  out!  Tie  him 
up.  Here!  (She  takes  out  a  lace  handker- 
chief.} No — something  stronger!  Poor  dar- 
ling Edward !  (To  HANNIBAL)  You  are  a  bad 
dog! 

(HANNIBAL  snuffles.) 

MAUD.  Edward  began  it,  Ella.    (To  HANNIBAL) 
Bad  dog !    Bad  dog ! 
(HANNIBAL  snuffles.) 

LADY  ELLA.  Tie  him  up  outside.  Here,  take  my 
scarf.  Where  is  my  poor  treasure?  (She  re- 
moves her  scarf.)  Catch!  His  ear's  torn;  I 
saw  it. 

MAUD  (taking  the  scarf,  to  HANNIBAL).  Now! 
(HANNIBAL  snuffles.  She  ties  the  scarf  to  his  col- 
lar.) He  smells  horrible.  Bad  dog — getting 
into  ponds  to  fight ! 

LADY  ELLA.  Tie  him  up,  Maud.  I  must  try  in 
here. 

(Their  husbands,  THE  SQUIRE  and  THE  REC- 
TOR, come  hastening  along  the  veranda.) 

MAUD  (to  THE  RECTOR).  Smell  him,  Bertie! 
(To  THE  SQUIRE)  You  might  have  that  pond 
drained,  Squire ! 

(She  takes  HANNIBAL  out,  and  ties  him  to 
the  veranda.    THE  SQUIRE  and  RECTOR 
40 


HALL-MARKED 

come  in.    LADY  ELLA  is  knocking  on  the 
door  left.) 

HER  VOICE.  All  right !    I've  bound  him  up ! 
LADY  ELLA.  May  I  come  in  ? 
HER  VOICE.  Just  a  second !    I've  got  nothing  on. 
(LADY  ELLA  recoils.    THE  SQUIRE  and  REC- 
TOR make  an  involuntary  movement  of 
approach.) 

LADY  ELLA.  Oh !    There  you  are ! 
THE  RECTOR  (doubtfully).  I  was  just  going  to 

wade  in 

LADY  ELLA.  Hannibal  would  have  killed  him,  if 

she  hadn't  rushed  in ! 
THE  SQUIRE.  Done  him  good,  little  beast ! 
LADY  ELLA.  Why  didn't  you  go  in,  Tommy? 

THE  SQUIRE.  Well,  I  would — only  she 

LADY  ELLA.  I  can't  think  how  she  got  Edward  out 

of  Hannibal's  awful  mouth ! 
MAUD  (without — to  HANNIBAL,  who  is  snuffling  on 
the  veranda,  and  straining  at  the  scarf).    Bad 
dog! 

LADY  ELLA.  We  must  simply  thank  her  tremen- 
dously !    I  shall  never  forget  the  way  she  ran 
in,  with  her  skirts  up  to  her  waist ! 
THE  SQUIRE.  By  Jove !    No. 
LADY  ELLA.  Her  clothes  must  be  ruined.    That 

41 


HALL-MARKED 

pond — ugh !    (She  wrinkles  her  nose.)    Tommy, 
do  have  it  drained. 

THE  RECTOR  (dreamily).  I  don't  remember  her 
face  in  church. 

THE  SQUIRE.  Ah!    Yes.    Who  is  she?    Pretty 

woman ! 

LADY  ELLA.  I  must  get  the  Vet.  to  Edward. 
(To  THE  SQUIRE)  Tommy,  do  exert  yourself ! 

(MAUD  re-enters.) 
THE  SQUIRE.  All  right !    (Exerting  himself)  Here's 

a  bell. 

HER  VOICE   (through  the  door).  The  bleeding's 
stopped.    (They  listen.)    Shall  I  send  him  in 
to  you? 
LADY  ELLA.  Oh,  please!    Poor  darling ! 

(LADY  ELLA  prepares  to  receive  EDWARD. 
THE  SQUIRE  and  RECTOR  stand  trans- 
fixed. The  door  opens,  and  a  bare  arm 
gently  pushes  EDWARD  forth.  He  is  band- 
aged with  a  smooth  towel.  There  is  a 
snuffle — HANNIBAL  has  broken  the  scarf, 
outside.) 

LADY  ELLA   (aghast).  Look!    Hannibal's  loose! 
Maud — Tommy.     (To  THE  RECTOR)  You ! 
(The  three  rush  to  prevent  HANNIBAL  from 
re-entering.) 

42 


HALLMARKED 

LADY  ELLA  (to  EDWARD).  Yes,  I  know— you'd 

like  to !    You  shall  bite  him  when  it's  safe. 

Oh!     my    darling,    you    do —    (She    sniffs. 

MAUD  and  THE  SQUIRE  re-enter.)    Have  you 

tied  him  properly  this  time? 
MAUD.  With  Bertie's  braces. 

LADY  ELLA.  Oh !  but 

MAUD.  It's  all  right;  they're  almost  leather. 

(THE  RECTOR  re-enters,  with  a  slight  look 

of  insecurity.) 

LADY  ELLA.  Rector,  are  you  sure  it's  safe? 
THE  RECTOR  (hitching  at  his  trousers).  No,  indeed, 

Lady  Ella— I 

LADY  ELLA.  Tommy,  do  lend  a  hand ! 

THE    SQUIRE.  All    right,    Ella;    all    right!    He 

doesn't  mean  what  you  mean ! 
LADY  ELLA  (transferring  EDWARD  to  THE  SQUIRE). 

Hold  him,  Tommy.    He's  sure  to  smell  out 

Hannibal ! 
THE  SQUIRE  (taking  EDWARD  by  the  collar,  and 

holding  his   own  nose).  Jove!    Clever  if  he 

can  smell  anything  but  himself.    Phew!    She 

ought  to  have  the  Victoria  Cross  for  goin'  in 

that  pond. 

(The  door  opens,  and  HERSELF  appears;  a 
fine,  frank,  handsome  woman,  in  a  man's 
43 


HALL-MARKED 

orange-coloured  motor-coat,  hastily  thrown 
on  over  the  substrata  of  costume.} 
SHE.  So  very  sorry — had  to  have  a  bath,  and 

change,  of  course ! 
LADY  ELLA.  We're  so  awfully  grateful  to  you. 

It  was  splendid. 
MAUD.  Quite. 
THE   RECTOR   (rather  holding   himself  together). 

Heroic !    I  was  just  myself  about  to 

THE  SQUIRE  (restraining  EDWARD).  Little  beast 
mil  fight — must  apologise — you  were  too  quick 

for  me 

(He  looks  up  at  her.    She  is  smiling,  and 
regarding    the    wounded   dog,    her    head 
benevolently  on  one  side.) 
SHE.  Poor  dears!    They  thought  they  were  so 

safe  in  that  nice  pond ! 
LADY  ELLA.  Is  he  very  badly  torn  ? 
SHE.  Rather  nasty.    There  ought  to  be  a  stitch 
or  two  put  in  his  ear. 

LADY  ELLA.  I  thought  so.    Tommy,  do 

THE  SQUIRE.  All  right.    Am  I  to  let  him  go  ? 

LADY  ELLA.  No. 

MAUD.  The  fly's  outside.    Bertie,  run  and  tell 

Jarvis  to  drive  in  for  the  Vet. 
THE    RECTOR    (gentle    and    embarrassed).  Run? 

Well,  Maud— I 

44 


HALL-MARKED 

SHE.  The  doctor  would  sew  it  up.    My  maid 
can  go  round. 

(HANNIBAL  appears  at  the  open  casement  with 
the  broken  braces  dangling  from  his  collar.) 
LADY  ELLA.  Look !    Catch  him !    Rector ! 
MAUD.  Bertie !    Catch  him ! 

(THE  RECTOK  seizes  HANNIBAL,  but  is  seen 
to  be  in  difficulties  with  his  garments. 
HERSELF,  who  has  gone  out  left,  returns, 
with  a  leather  strop  in  one  hand  and  a  pair 
of  braces  in  the  other.) 

SHE.  Take  this  strop — he  can't  break  that.    And 
would  these  be  any  good  to  you  ? 

(She  hands  the  braces  to  MAUD  and  goes  out 

onto  the  veranda  and  hastily  away.   MAUD, 

transferring  the  braces  to  THE  RECTOR,  goes 

out,  draws  HANNIBAL  from  the  casement 

window,  and  secures  him  with  the  strop. 

THE  RECTOR  sits  suddenly,  with  the  braces 

in  his  hands.    There  is  a  moment's  peace.) 

LADY  ELLA.  Splendid,  isn't  she  ?    I  do  admire  her. 

THE  SQUIRE.  She's  all  there. 

THE  RECTOR  (feelingly).  Most  kind. 

(He  looks  ruefully  at  the  braces  and  at  LADY 
ELLA.    A  silence.    MAUD  reappears  at 
the  door  and  stands  gazing  at  the  braces.) 
45 


HALLMARKED 

THE  SQUIRE  (suddenly).  Eh? 

MAUD.  Yes. 

THE  SQUIRE  (looking  at  his  wife).  Ah ! 

LADY  ELLA  (absorbed  in  EDWARD).  Poor  darling! 

THE  SQUIRE  (bluntly).  Ella,  the  rector  wants  to 

get  up ! 

THE  RECTOR  (gently).  Perhaps — just  for  a  mo- 
ment  

LADY  ELLA.  Oh !    (She  turns  to  the  wall.) 

(THE  RECTOR,  screened  by  his  wife,  retires 

onto  the  veranda,  to  adjust  his  garments.) 
THE  SQUIRE  (meditating).  So  she's  married! 
LADY  ELLA  (absorbed  in  EDWARD).  Why? 
THE  SQUIRE.  Braces. 
LADY  ELLA.  Oh!    Yes.    We  ought  to  ask  them 

to  dinner,  Tommy. 
THE  SQUIRE.  Ah !    Yes.    Wonder  who  they  are  ? 

(THE  RECTOR  and  MAUD  reappear.) 
THE  RECTOR.  Really  very  good  of  her  to  lend  her 

husband's —    I  was — er — quite 

MAUD.  That'll  do,  Bertie. 

(They  see  HER  returning  along  the  veranda, 
followed  by  a  sandy,  red-faced  gentleman 
in  leather  leggings,  with  a  needle  and  cot- 
ton in  his  hand.) 
46 


HALL-MARKED 

HERSELF.  Caught  the  doctor  just  starting.    So 

lucky! 

LADY  ELLA.  Oh !    Thank  goodness ! 
DOCTOR.  How  do,  Lady  Ella?    How  do,  Squire 

—how  do,  Rector?    (To  MAUD)  How  de  do? 

This  the  beast?    I  see.    Quite!    Who'll  hold 

hun  for  me  ? 
LADY  ELLA.  Oh !    1 1 
HERSELF.  D'you  know,  I  think  I'd  better.    It's 

so  dreadful  when  it's  your  own,  isn't  it  ?    Shall 

we  go  in  here,  doctor?    Come  along,  pretty 

boy! 

(SHE  takes  EDWARD,  and  they  pass  into  the 

room,  left.) 

LADY  ELLA.  I  dreaded  it.    She  is  splendid ! 
THE  SQUIRE.  Dogs  take  to  her.    That's  a  sure 

sign. 

THE  RECTOR.  Little  things — one  can  always  tell. 
THE  SQUIRE.  Something  very  attractive  about  her 

— what !    Fine  build  of  woman. 
MAUD.  I  shall  get  hold  of  her  for  parish  work. 
THE  RECTOR.  Ah !    Excellent — excellent !    Do ! 
THE   SQUIRE.  Wonder  if  her  husband  shoots? 

She  seems  quite — er — quite 

LADY   ELLA    (watching   the  door).  Quite!    Alto- 
gether charming;  one  of  the  nicest  faces  I  ever 
47 


HALL-MARKED 

saw.    (THE  DOCTOR  comes  out  alone.)    Oh! 
Doctor — have  you — is  it 

DOCTOR.  Right  as  rain!  She  held  him  like  an 
angel — he  just  licked  her,  and  never  made  a 
sound. 

LADY  ELLA.  Poor  darling !  Can  I —  (She  signs 
toward  the  door.) 

DOCTOR.  Better  leave  'em  a  minute.  She's  mop- 
pin'  'im  off.  (He  winkles  his  nose.)  Wonder- 
ful clever  hands ! 

THE  SQUIRE.  I  say — who  is  she? 

DOCTOR  (looking  from  face  to  face  with  a  dubious 
and  rather  quizzical  expression) .  Who?  Well — • 
There  you  have  me!  All  I  know  is  she's  a 
first-rate  nurse — been  helpin'  me  with  a  case 
in  Ditch  Lane.  Nice  woman,  too — thorough 
good  sort!  Quite  an  acquisition  here.  H'm! 
(Again  that  quizzical  glance?)  Excuse  me 
hurryin'  off — very  late.  Good-bye,  Rector! 
Good-bye,  Lady  Ella !  Good-bye ! 
(He  goes.  A  silence) 

THE  SQUIRE.  H'm !  I  suppose  we  ought  to  be  a 
bit  careful. 

(JARVIS,  flyman  of  the  old  school,  has  ap- 
peared on  the  veranda) 

JARVIS  (to  THE  RECTOR).  Beg  pardon,  sir.    Is 
the  little  dog  all  right  ? 
48 


HALL-MARKED 

MAUD.  Yes. 

JARVIS  (touching  his  hat).  Seein'  you've  missed 
your  train,  m'm,  shall  I  wait,  and  take  you 
'ome  again  ? 

MAUD.  No. 

JARVIS.  Cert'nly,  m'm. 

(He  touches  his  hat  with  a  circular  gesture, 
and  is  about  to  withdraw) 

LADY  ELLA.  Oh !  Jarvis — what's  the  name  of  the 
people  here  ? 

JARVIS.  Challenger's  the  name  I've  driven  'em 
in,  my  lady. 

THE  SQUIRE.  Challenger?  Sounds  like  a  hound. 
What's  he  like? 

JARVIS  (scratching  his  head).  Wears  a  soft  'at,  sir. 

THE  SQUIRE.  H'm !    Ah ! 

JARVIS.  Very  nice  gentleman,  very  nice  lady. 
'Elped  me  with  my  old  mare  when  she  'ad  the 
'ighsteria  last  week — couldn't  'a'  been  kinder 
if  they'd  'a'  been  angels  from  'eaven.  Won- 
derful fond  o'  dumb  animals,  the  two  of  'em. 
I  don't  pay  no  attention  to  gossip,  meself. 

MAUD.  Gossip  ?    What  gossip  ? 

JARVIS  (backing).  Did  I  make  use  of  the  word, 
m'm?    You'll  excuse  me,  I'm  sure.    There's 
always  talk  where  there's  newcomers.    I  takes 
people  as  I  finds  'em. 
49 


HALL-MARKED 

THE  RECTOR.  Yes,  yes,  Jarvis — quite — quite  right ! 

JARVIS.  Yes,  sir.  I've — I've  got  a  'abit  that  way 
at  my  time  o'  life. 

MAUD  (sharply).  How  long  have  they  been  here, 
Jarvis  ? 

JARVIS.  Well — er — a  matter  of  three  weeks,  m'm. 
(A  slight  involuntary  stir.  Apologetic)  Of 
course,  in  my  profession,  I  can't  afford  to 
take  notice  of  whether  there's  the  trifle  of  a 
ring  between  'em,  as  the  sayin'  is.  'Tisn't 
'ardly  my  business  like. 
(A  silence.) 

LADY  ELLA  (suddenly).  Er — thank  you,  Jarvis; 
you  needn't  wait. 

JARVIS.  No,  m'lady!    Your  service,  sir — service, 
m'm.     (He  goes.) 
(A  silence.) 

THE  SQUIRE  (drawing  a  little  closer).  Three  weeks? 
I  say — er — wasn't  there  a  book? 

THE  RECTOR  (abstracted).  Three  weeks — I  cer- 
tainly haven't  seen  them  in  church. 

MAUD.  A  trifle  of  a  ring ! 

LADY  ELLA  (impulsively).  Oh,  bother!  I'm  sure 
she's  all  right.  And  if  she  isn't,  I  don't  care. 
She's  been  much  too  splendid. 

THE  SQUIRE.  Must  think  of  the  village.    Didn't 

quite  like  the  doctor's  way  of  puttin'  us  off. 

50 


HALL-MARKED 

LADY  ELLA.  The  poor  darling  owes  his  life  to  her. 

THE  SQUIRE.  H'm !  Dash  it !  Yes !  Can't  for- 
get the  way  she  ran  into  that  stinkin'  pond. 

MAUD.  Had  she  a  wedding-ring  on  ? 

(They  look  at  each  other,  but  no  one  knows.) 

LADY  ELLA.  Well,  I'm  not  going  to  be  ungrate- 
ful! 

THE  SQUIRE.  It'd  be  dashed  awkward — mustn't 
take  a  false  step,  Ella. 

THE  RECTOR.  And  I've  got  his  braces! 
(He  puts  his  hand  to  his  waist.) 

MAUD  (warningly).  Bertie! 

THE  SQUIRE.  That's  all  right,  Rector— we're  goin' 
to  be  perfectly  polite,  and — and — thank  her, 
and  all  that. 

LADY  ELLA.  We  can  see  she's  a  good  sort.  What 
does  it  matter  ? 

MAUD.  My  dear  Ella!  "What  does  it  matter!" 
We've  got  to  know. 

THE  RECTOR.  We  do  want  light. 

THE  SQUIRE.  I'll  ring  the  bell. 

(He  rings.    They  look  at  each  other  aghast.) 

LADY  ELLA.  What  did  you  ring  for,  Tommy? 

THE  SQUIRE  (flabbergasted).  God  knows ! 

MAUD.  Somebody'll  come. 

THE  SQUIRE.  Rector — you — you've  got  to 

51 


HALL-MARKED 

MAUD.  Yes,  Bertie. 

THE  RECTOE.  Dear  me!  But — er — what — er — 
How? 

THE  SQUIRE  (deeply — to  himself).  The  whole 
thing's  damn  delicate. 

(The  door  right  is  opened  and  a  MAID  ap- 
pears. She  is  a  determined-looking  female. 
They  face  her  in  silence.) 

THE  RECTOR.  Er — er — your  master  is  not  in  ? 

THE  MAID.  No.    'E's  gone  up  to  London. 

THE  RECTOR.  Er — Mr.  Challenger,  I  think? 

THE  MAID.  Yes. 

THE  RECTOR.  Yes !    Er — quite  so ! 

THE  MAID  (eyeing  them).  D'you  want — Mrs. 
Challenger  ? 

THE  RECTOR.  Ah !    Not  precisely 

THE  SQUIRE  (to  him  in  a  low,  determined  voice).  Go 
on. 

THE  RECTOR  (desperately).  I  asked  because  there 
was  a — a — Mr.  Challenger  I  used  to  know  in 
the  nineties,  and  I  thought — you  wouldn't 
happen  to  know  how  long  they've  been  mar- 
ried ?  My  friend  marr 

THE  MAID.  Three  weeks. 

THE  RECTOR.  Quite  so — quite  so!  I  shall  hope 
it  will  turn  out  to  be —  Er — thank  you — 
Ha! 

52 


HALL-MARKED 

LADY  ELLA.  Our  dog  has  been  fighting  with  the 

rector's,  and   Mrs.    Challenger   rescued  him; 

she's  bathing  his  ear.    We're  waiting  to  thank 

her.    You  needn't 

THE  MAID  (eyeing  them}.  No.    (She  turns  and 

goes  out.) 
THE  SQUIRE.  Phew!     What  a  gorgon!    I  say, 

Rector,  did  you  really  know  a  Challenger  in 

the  nineties  ? 

THE  RECTOR  (wiping  his  brow).  No. 
THE  SQUIRE.  Ha !    Jolly  good ! 
LADY  ELLA.  Well,  you  see ! — it's  all  right. 
THE  RECTOR.  Yes,  indeed.    A  great  relief ! 
LADY  ELLA  (moving  to  the  door).  I  must  go  in  now. 
THE  SQUIRE.  Hold  on!    You  goin'  to  ask  'em 

to — to — anything  ? 
LADY  ELLA.  Yes. 
MAUD.  I  shouldn't. 
LADY  ELLA.  Why  not?    We  all  like  the  look  of 

her. 
THE  RECTOR.  I  think  we  should  punish  ourselves 

for  entertaining  that  uncharitable  thought. 
LADY  ELLA.  Yes.    It's  horrible  not  having  the 

courage  to  take  people  as  they  are. 
THE  SQUIRE.  As  they  are  ?    H'm !    How  can  you 

till  you  know? 

53 


HALL-MARKED 

LADY  ELLA.  Trust  our  instincts,  of  course. 

THE  SQUIEE.  And  supposing  she'd  turned  out  not 

married — eh  ? 

LADY  ELLA.  She'd  still  be  herself,  wouldn't  she? 
MAUD.  Ella! 

THE  SQUIKE.  H'm !    Don't  know  about  that. 
LADY  ELLA.  Of  course  she  would,  Tommy. 
THE  RECTOR  (his  hand  stealing  to  his  waist) .    Well ! 

It's  a  great  weight  off  my ! 

LADY  ELLA.  There's  the  poor  darling  snuffling. 
I  must  go  in. 

(She  knocks  on  the  door.    It  is  opened,  and 
EDWARD  comes  out  briskly,  with  a  neat 
little  white  pointed  ear-cap  on  one  ear.) 
LADY  ELLA.  Precious ! 

(SHE  HERSELF  comes  out,   now  properly 

dressed  in  flax-blue  linen.) 
LADY  ELLA.  How  perfectly  sweet  of  you  to  make 

him  that ! 

SHE.  He's  such  a  dear.    And  the  other  poor  dog? 
MAUD.  Quite  safe,  thanks  to  your  strop. 

(HANNIBAL  appears  at  the  window,  with  the 
broken  strop  dangling.  Following  her  gaze, 
they  turn  and  see  him.) 

MAUD.  Oh !    There,  he's  broken  it.    Bertie ! 
SHE.  Let  me !    (SHE  seizes  HANNIBAL.) 

54 


HALL-MARKED 

THE  SQUIRE.  We're  really  most  tremendously 
obliged  to  you.  Afraid  we've  been  an  awful 
nuisance. 

SHE.  Not  a  bit.    I  love  dogs. 

THE  SQUIRE.  Hope  to  make  the  acquaintance  of 
Mr. — of  your  husband. 

LADY  ELLA  (to  EDWARD,  who  is  straining).  Gently, 
darling!  Tommy,  take  him.  (THE  SQUIRE 
does  so.) 

MAUD  (approaching  HANNIBAL).  Is  he  behaving? 
(She  stops  short,  and  her  face  suddenly  shoots 
forward  at  HER  hands  that  are  holding  HAN- 
NIBAL'S neck.) 

SHE.  Oh !  yes — he's  a  love. 

MAUD  (regaining  her  upright  position,  and  pursing 
her  lips;  in  a  peculiar  voice).  Bertie,  take  Han- 
nibal. 

(THE  RECTOR  takes  him.) 

LADY  ELLA  (producing  a  card).  I  can't  be  too 
grateful  for  all  you've  done  for  my  poor  dar- 
ling. This  is  where  we  live.  Do  come — and 
see — (MAUD,  whose  eyes  have  never  left  those 
hands,  tweaks  LADY  ELLA'S  dress.)  That  is — 

I'm— I 

(HERSELF  looks  at  LADY  ELLA  in  surprise.) 

THE  SQUIRE.  I  don't  know  if  your  husband  shoots, 

55 


HALL-MARKED 

but — if — (MAUD,  catching  his  eye,  taps  the 
third  finger  of  her  left  hand) — er — he — does — er 
^* ' "Gr  *" " * 

(HEKSELF  looks  at  THE  SQUIEE  surprised.) 
MAUD  (turning  to  her  husband,  repeats  the  gesture 

with  the  low  and  simple  word)  Look ! 
THE  RECTOR  (with  round  eyes,  severely).  Han- 
nibal ! 

(He  lifts  him  bodily,  and  carries  him  away.) 
MAUD.  Don't  squeeze  him,  Bertie !    (She  follows 

through  the  French  window.) 
THE  SQUIRE  (abruptly — of  the  unoffending  ED- 
WARD). That  dog'll  be  forgettin'  himself  in  a 
minute.    (He  picks  up  EDWARD,  and  takes  him 
out.    LADY  ELLA  is  left  staring.) 
LADY  ELLA  (at  last).  You  mustn't  think,  I — you 
mustn't  think,  we —    Oh!    I  must  just  see 
they  don't  let  Edward  get  at  Hannibal.    (She 
skims  away.) 

(HERSELF  is  left  staring  after  LADY  ELLA,  in 

surprise.) 
SHE.  What  is  the  matter  with  them  ? 

(The  door  is  opened.) 

THE  MAID  (entering,  and  holding  out  a  wedding- 
ring — severely).  You  left  this,  m'm,  in  the 
bathroom. 

56 


HALL-MARKED 

SHE  (looking,  startled,  at  HER  finger).  Oh!   (Taking 
it)  I  hadn't  missed  it.    Thank  you,  Martha. 
(THE  MAID  goes.    A  hand,  slipping  in  at  the 
casement  window,  softly  lays  a  pair  of 
braces  on  the  window-sill.    SHE  looks  at 
the  braces,  then  at  the  ring.    HER  lip  curls.) 
SHE  (murmuring  deeply).  Ah! 


57 


THE   VOICE   OF 


The  proprietor  of  "The  Paradise"  had  said 
freely  that  she  would  "knock  them."  Broad,  full- 
coloured,  and  with  the  clear,  swimming  eye  of  an 
imaginative  man,  he  was  trusted  when  he  spoke 
thus  of  his  new  "turns."  There  was  the  feeling 
that  he  had  once  more  discovered  a  good  thing. 

And  on  the  afternoon  of  the  new  star's  dress 
rehearsal  it  was  noticed  that  he  came  down  to 
watch  her,  smoking  his  cigar  calmly  in  the  front 
row  of  the  stalls.  When  she  had  finished  and 
withdrawn,  the  chef  d'orchestre,  while  folding  up 
his  score,  felt  something  tickling  his  ear. 

"Bensoni,  this  is  hot  goods  I" 

Turning  that  dim,  lined  face  of  his,  whose 
moustache  was  always  coming  out  of  wax,  Signor 
Bensoni  answered:  "A  bit  of  all  right,  boss !" 

"If  they  hug  her  real  big  to-night,  send  round 
to  my  room." 

"I  will." 

Evening  came,  and  under  the  gilt-starred  dome 
the  house  was  packed.  Rows  and  rows  of  serious 
seekers  for  amusement;  and  all  the  customary 

59 


THE  VOICE  OF 


crowd  of  those  who  "drop  in" — old  clients  with 
hair  and  without  hair,  in  evening  clothes,  or 
straight  from  their  offices  or  race-course;  bare- 
necked ladies  sitting;  ladies  who  never  sat,  but 
under  large  hats  stood  looking  into  the  distance, 
or  moved  with  alacrity  in  no  particular  direction, 
and  halted  swiftly  with  a  gentle  humming;  loun- 
ging and  high-collared  youths,  furtively  or  boldly 
staring,  and  unconsciously  tightening  their  lips; 
distinguished  goatee-bearded  foreigners  wander- 
ing without  rest.  And  always  round  the  door- 
ways the  huge  attendants,  in  their  long,  closely 
buttoned  coats. 

The  little  Peruvian  bears  had  danced.  The 
Volpo  troupe  in  claret-coloured  tights  had  gone 
once  more  without  mishap  through  their  hair- 
breadth tumbles.  The  Mulligatawny  quartet 
had  contributed  their  "unparalleled  plate  spray." 
"Donks,  the  human  ass,"  had  brayed.  Signer 
Bensoni  had  conducted  to  its  close  his  "Pot-pour- 
riture"  which  afforded  so  many  men  an  oppor- 
tunity to  stretch  their  legs.  Arsenico  had  swal- 
lowed many  things  with  conspicuous  impunity. 
"Great  and  Small  Scratch"  had  scratched. 
"Fraulein  Tizi,  the  charming  female  vocalist," 
had  suddenly  removed  his  stays.  There  had  been 
no  minute  dull;  yet  over  the  whole  performance 

60 


THE  VOICE  OF  ! 

had  hung  that  advent  of  the  new  star,  that  sense 
of  waiting  for  a  greater  moment. 

She  came  at  last — in  black  and  her  own  white- 
ness, "La  Bellissima,"  straight  from  Brazil;  tall, 
with  raven-dark  hair,  and  her  beautiful  face  as 
pale  as  ivory.  Tranquilly  smiling  with  eyes  only, 
she  seemed  to  draw  the  gaze  of  all  into  those  dark 
wells  of  dancing  life;  and,  holding  out  her  arms, 
that  seemed  fairer  and  rounder  than  the  arms  of 
women,  she  said:  "Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I  will 
dance  for  you  de  latest  Gollywog  Brazilian  cater- 
pillar crawl." 

Then,  in  lime-light  streaming  down  on  her  from 
the  centre  of  the  gallery,  she  moved  back  to  the 
corner  of  the  stage.  Those  who  were  wandering 
stood  still;  every  face  craned  forward.  For,  side- 
long, with  a  mouth  widened  till  it  nearly  reached 
her  ears,  her  legs  straddling,  and  her  stomach 
writhing,  she  was  moving  incomparably  across 
the  stage.  Her  face,  twisted  on  her  neck,  at  an 
alarming  angle,  was  distorted  to  a  strange,  inim- 
itable hideousness.  She  reached  the  wings,  and 
turned.  A  voice  cried  out:  "Epatant!"  Her 
arms,  those  round  white  arms,  seemed  yellow  and 
skinny  now,  her  obviously  slender  hips  had 
achieved  miraculous  importance;  each  movement 
of  her  whole  frame  was  attuned  to  a  perfect  har- 

61 


THE  VOICE  OF 


mony  of  ugliness.  Twice  she  went  thus  marvel- 
lously up  and  down,  in  the  ever-deepening  hush. 
Then  the  music  stopped,  the  lime-light  ceased  to 
flow,  and  she  stood  once  more  tranquil  and  up- 
right, beautiful,  with  her  smiling  eyes.  A  roar 
of  enthusiasm  broke,  salvo  after  salvo — clapping 
and  "Bravos,"  and  comments  flying  from  mouth 
to  mouth. 

"RippinM"  "Bizarre — I  say — how  bizarre!" 
"Of  the  most  chic!"  "WunderschBn!"  "Bully!" 

Raising  her  arms  again  for  silence,  she  said 
quite  simply:  " Good !  I  will  now,  ladies  and  gen- 
tlemen, sing  you  the  latest  Patagonian  Squaw 
Squall.  I  sing  you  first,  however,  few  bars  of 
'Che  faro'  old-fashion,  to  show  you  my  natural 
tones — so  you  will  see."  And  in  a  deep,  sweet 
voice  began  at  once:  "Che  faro  senz'  Euridice"; 
while  through  the  whole  house  ran  a  shuffle  of 
preparation  for  the  future.  Then  all  was  sud- 
denly still;  for  from  her  lips,  remarkably  enlarged, 
was  issuing  a  superb  cacophony.  Like  the  screech- 
ing of  parrots,  and  miauling  of  tiger-cats  fighting 
in  a  forest,  it  forced  attention  from  even  the  least 
musical. 

Before  the  first  verse  was  ended,  the  uncontrol- 
lable applause  had  drowned  her;  and  she  stood, 
not  bowing,  smiling  with  her  lips  now — her  pretty 

62 


THE  VOICE  OF 


lips.  Then  raising  a  slender  forefinger,  she  began 
the  second  verse.  Even  more  strangely  harsh  and 
dissonant,  from  lips  more  monstrously  disfigured, 
the  great  sound  came.  And,  as  though  in  tune 
with  that  crescendo,  the  lime-light  brightened  till 
she  seemed  all  wrapped  in  flame.  Before  the 
storm  of  acclamation  could  burst  from  the  en- 
raptured house,  a  voice  coming  from  the  gallery 
was  heard  suddenly  to  cry: 

"Woman!  Blasphemous  creature !  You  have 
profaned  Beauty !" 

For  a  single  second  there  was  utter  silence,  then 
a  huge,  angry  "Hush!"  was  hurled  up  at  the 
speaker;  and  all  eyes  turned  toward  the  stage. 

There  stood  the  beautiful  creature,  motionless, 
staring  up  into  the  lime-light.  And  the  voice  from 
the  gallery  was  heard  again. 

"The  blind  applaud  you;  it  is  natural.  But 
you — unnatural!  Go!"  The  beautiful  creature 
threw  up  her  head,  as  though  struck  below  the 
jaw,  and  with  hands  flung  out,  rushed  from  the 
stage.  Then,  amidst  the  babel  of  a  thousand 
cries — "Chuck  the  brute  out!"  "Throw  him 
over ! "  "  Where's  the  manager  ?  "  "  Encore,  en- 
core!"— the  manager  himself  came  out  from 
the  wings.  He  stood  gazing  up  into  the  stream 
of  lime-light,  and  there  was  instant  silence. 

63 


THE  VOICE  OF  ! 

"  Hullo !  up  there !    Have  you  got  him  ?  " 

A  voice,  far  and  small,  travelled  back  in  answer: 
"It's  no  one  up  here,  sir !" 

"What?  Limes!  It  was  in  front  of  you!" 
A  second  f aint,  small  voice  came  quavering  down : 
"There's  been  no  one  hollerin'  near  me,  sir." 

"Cut  off  your  light!" 

Down  came  the  quavering  voice:  "I  'ave  cut 
off,  sir." 

"What?" 

"I  'ave  cut  off — I'm  disconnected." 

"Look  at  it !"  And,  pointing  toward  the  bril- 
liant ray  still  showering  down  onto  the  stage, 
whence  a  faint  smoke  seemed  rising,  the  man- 
ager stepped  back  into  the  wings. 

Then,  throughout  the  house,  arose  a  rustling 
and  a  scuffling,  as  of  a  thousand  furtively  con- 
sulting; and  through  it,  of  it,  continually  louder, 
the  whisper — "Fire !" 

And  from  every  row  some  one  stole  out:  the 
women  in  the  large  hats  clustered,  and  trooped 
toward  the  doors.  In  five  minutes  "The  Para- 
dise" was  empty,  save  of  its  officials.  But  of 
fire  there  was  none. 

Down  in  the  orchestra,  standing  well  away  from 
the  centre,  so  that  he  could  see  the  stream  of  lime- 
light, the  manager  said: 

64 


THE  VOICE  OF 


"Electrics!" 

"Yes,  sir." 

"Cutoff  every  light." 

"Right,  sir." 

With  a  clicking  sound  the  lights  went  out;  and 
all  was  black — but  for  that  golden  pathway  still 
flowing  down  the  darkness.  For  a  moment  the 
manager  blinked  silently  at  the  strange  effulgence. 
Then  his  scared  voice  rose:  "Send  for  the  Boss — 
look  alive !  Where's  Limes  ?  " 

Close  to  his  elbow  a  dark  little  quick-eyed 
man,  with  his  air  of  professional  stupidity,  an- 
swered in  doubt:  "Here,  sir." 

"It's  up  to  you,  Limes !" 

The  little  man,  wiping  his  forehead,  gazed  at 
the  stream  of  golden  light,  powdering  out  to  silver 
at  its  edges. 

"I've  took  out  me  limes,  and  I'm  disconnected, 
and  this  blanky  ray  goes  on.  What  am  I  to  do  ? 
There's  nothing  up  there  to  cause  it.  Go  an'  see 
for  yourself,  sir !"  Then,  passing  his  hand  across 
his  mouth,  he  blurted  out:  "It's  got  to  do  with 
that  there  voice — I  shouldn't  be  surprised.  Un- 
nat'ral-like;  the  voice  o' " 

The  manager  interrupted  sharply:  "Don't  be  a 
d — dass,  Limes!" 

And,  suddenly,  all  saw  the  proprietor  passing 
65 


THE  VOICE  OF 


from  the  prompt  side  behind  that  faint  mist 
where  the  ray  fell. 

"What's  the  theatre  dark  like  this  for?  Why 
is  it  empty  ?  What's  happened  ?  " 

The  manager  answered. 

"We're  trying  to  find  out,  sir;  a  madman  in  the 
gallery,  whom  we  couldn't  locate,  made  a  disturb- 
ance, called  the  new  turn  'A  natural';  and  now 
there's  some  hanky  with  this  lime.  It's  been 
taken  out,  and  yet  it  goes  on  like  that !" 

"What  cleared  the  house?" 

The  manager  pointed  at  the  stage. 

"It  looked  like  smoke,"  he  said:  "That  light's 
loose;  we  can't  get  hold  of  its  end  anywhere." 

From  behind  him  Signer  Bensoni  suddenly 
pushed  up  his  dim,  scared  face. 

"Boss!"  he  stammered:  "It's  the  most  bizarre 
— the  most  bizarre — thing  I  ever  struck — Limes 
thinks " 

"Yes?"  The  Boss  turned  and  spoke  very 
quickly:  "What  does  he  think — yes?" 

"He  thinks — the  voice  wasn't  from  the  gallery 
— but  higher;  he  thinks — he  thinks — it  was  the 
voice  of — voice  of " 

A  sudden  sparkle  lit  up  the  Boss's  eyes. 
"Yes?"  he  hissed  out;  "yes?" 

"He  thinks  it  was  the  voice  of —    Hullo !" 
66 


THE  VOICE  OF 


The  stream  of  light  had  vanished.  All  was 
darkness. 

Some  one  called:  "Up  with  your  lights !" 

As  the  lights  leaped  forth,  all  about  the  house, 
the  Boss  was  seen  to  rush  to  the  centre  of  the 
stage,  where  the  ray  had  been. 

"Bizarre!    By  gum!  .  .  .  Hullo!    Up  there!" 

No  sound,  no  ray  of  light,  answered  that  pas- 
sionately eager  shout. 

The  Boss  spun  round:  "Electrics!  You  blaz- 
ing ass !  Ten  to  one  but  you've  cut  my  connec- 
tion, turning  up  the  lights  like  that.  The  voice 
of — !  Great  snakes !  What  a  turn !  What  a 
turn!  I'd  have  given  it  a  thou'  a  week!  .  .  . 
Hullo!  up  there!  Hullo!" 

But  there  came  no  answer  from  under  the  gilt- 
starred  dome. 


67 


THE   DEAD   MAN 

In  the  spring  of  the  year  1950  a  lawyer  and  his 
friend  were  sitting  over  their  wine  and  walnuts. 
The  lawyer  said:  "In  turning  over  my  father's 
papers  the  other  day,  I  came  across  this  cutting 
from  a  newspaper.  It  is  dated  December,  19 — . 
Rather  a  singular  document.  If  you  like  I'll  read 
it  to  you." 

"Do,"  said  the  friend. 

The  lawyer  began  to  read: 

'Some  sensation  was  caused  in  a  London  police 
court  yesterday  by  a  poorly  dressed  but  respect- 
able-looking man  who  applied  to  the  magistrate 
for  advice.  We  give  the  conversation  verba- 
tim: 

"Your  Worship,  may  I  ask  you  a  question?" 

"If  it  is  one  that  I  can  answer." 

"It's  just  this:  Am  I  alive?" 

"Go  away!" 

"Your  Worship,  I  am  perfectly  serious.  It's  a 
69 


THE  DEAD  MAN 

matter  of  vital  importance  to  me  to  know;  I  am 
a  chain-maker." 

"Are  you  sane?" 

"Your  Worship,  I  am  quite  sane." 

"Then  what  do  you  mean  by  coming  here  and 
asking  me  a  question  like  that?" 

"Your  Worship,  I  am  out  of  work." 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?" 

"Your  Worship,  it's  like  this.  I've  been  out  of 
work,  through  no  fault  of  my  own,  for  two  months. 
Your  Worship  has  heard,  no  doubt,  that  there  are 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  us  chaps." 

"Well,  goon!" 

"Your  Worship,  I  don't  belong  to  a  union;  as 
you  know,  there's  no  union  to  my  trade." 

"Yes,  yes." 

"Your  Worship,  I  came  to  the  end  of  my  re- 
sources three  weeks  ago.  I've  done  my  best  to 
get  work,  but  I've  not  been  successful." 

"Have  you  applied  to  the  distress  committee 
of  your  district?" 

"I  have,  your  Worship;  but  they  are  full- 
up." 

"Have  you  been  to  the  parish  authorities?" 

"Yes,  your  Worship;  and  to  the  parson." 
70 


THE  DEAD  MAN 

"Haven't  you  any  relations  or  friends  to  help 
you?" 

"Half  of  them,  your  Worship,  are  in  my  con- 
dition, and  I've  exhausted  the  others." 

"You've ?" 

"Exhausted  the  others — had  all  they  could 
spare." 

"Have  you  a  wife  and  children?" 

"No,  your  Worship;  that's  against  me,  it 
makes  me  come  hi  late  everywhere." 

"Yes,  yes — well,  you  have  the  poor  law;  you 
have  the  right  to " 

"Your  Worship,  I  have  been  in  two  of  those 
places — but  last  night  dozens  of  us  were  turned 
away  for  want  of  accommodation.  Your  Wor- 
ship, I  am  in  need  of  food;  have  I  the  right  to 
work?" 

"Only  under  the  poor  law." 

"I've  told  you,  sir,  I  couldn't  get  in  there  last 
night.  Can't  I  force  anybody  else  to  give  me 
work?" 

"I'm  afraid  not." 

"Your  Worship,  I'm  very  badly  in  want  of 
food;  will  you  allow  me  to  beg  in  the  streets?" 

"No,  no;  I  can't.    You  know  I  can't." 
71 


THE  DEAD  MAN 

"Well,  your  Worship,  may  I  steal?" 

"Now,  now;  you  mustn't  waste  the  time  of  the 
court." 

"But,  your  Worship,  it's  very  serious  to  me; 
I'm  literally  starving,  I  am  indeed!  Will  you 
allow  me  to  sell  my  coat  or  trousers — "  Unbut- 
toning his  coat,  the  applicant  revealed  a  bare 
chest.  "I've  nothing  else  to " 

"You  mustn't  go  about  in  an  indecent  state; 
I  can't  allow  you  to  go  outside  the  law." 

"Well,  sir,  will  you  give  me  permission,  any- 
way, to  sleep  out  at  night,  without  being  taken 
up  for  vagrancy?" 

"Once  for  all,  I  have  no  power  to  allow  you  to 
do  any  of  these  things." 

"What  am  I  to  do,  sir,  then?  I'm  telling  you 
the  truth.  I  want  to  keep  within  the  law.  Can 
you  give  me  advice  how  to  go  on  living  without 
food?" 

"I  wish  I  could." 

"Well,  then,  I  ask  you,  sir:  In  the  eyes  of  the 
law,  am  I  alive  at  all?" 

"That  is  a  question,  my  man,  which  I  cannot 
answer.  On  the  face  of  it,  you  appear  to  be  alive 
only  if  you  break  the  law;  but  I  trust  you  will 

72 


THE  DEAD  MAN 

not  do  that.  I  am  very  sorry  for  you;  you  can 
have  a  shilling  from  the  box.  Next  case !" 

.  .  .  The  lawyer  stopped. 

"Yes,"  said  his  friend,  "that  is  very  interesting; 
very  singular  indeed.  Curious  state  of  things 
existing  then!" 


73 


WHY  NOT? 

Travelling  one  day  from  Ashford  to  Charing 
Cross,  I  fell  into  conversation  with  a  gentleman 
in  a  speckled  straw  hat.  He  asked  me,  very  soon, 
my  business  in  life.  I  informed  him,  and  hesitat- 
ing to  be  inferior  in  friendly  curiosity,  inquired 
of  him  in  turn.  He  wavered  a  moment,  then 
replied: 

"A  wife-insurance  agent." 

"A  life-insurance ?" 

"A  wife-insurance  agent";  and,  handing  me 
his  card,  he  added:  "Don't  you  know  my 
place?" 

I  answered  that  I  had  not  that  advantage. 

"  Really ! "  he  said ;  "  I  am  surprised.  I  thought 
every  one  was  beginning  to  know  of  me." 

"A  tyz/e-insurance  agent,  I  think  you  said?" 

"Certainly,"  he  answered.  "Let  me  explain! 
You  see,  for  many  years  I  was  a  solicitor;  and 
the  notion  came  to  me  one  day  in  the  course  of 
business.  I  can  assure  you  it  did  not  take  me 
long  to  grasp  its  possibilities." 

75 


WHY  NOT? 

He  smoked  for  a  moment  silently,  and  then 
went  on : 

"When  I  first  started  I  was  a  good  deal  bothered 
how  to  get  myself  known,  for  I  was  afraid  of 
wounding  the  susceptibilities  of  the  public.  You 
see,  the  matter's  delicate.  One  might  have  been 
misunderstood,  and  laid  oneself  open  to  attack 
in  some  of  those  papers  that — er — you  know.  It 
was  my  wife  who  solved  that  difficulty.  '  Don't 
advertise,'  she  said;  'go  quietly  round  amongst 
your  married  friends.  The  thing  is  good — it  will 
spread  itself.' " 

He  paused,  took  his  cigar  from  his  mouth,  and 
smiled. 

"My  dear  sir,  she  was  right.  I  issued  five 
hundred  policies  that  first  year.  Since  then  busi- 
ness has  been  going  up  by  leaps  and  bounds;  four 
thousand  policies  last  year;  this  year  they'll 
double  that  again." 

I  interrupted  him  to  say: 

"But  forgive  me!  I  haven't  quite  grasped  as 
yet  the  nature  of  this  insurance." 

He  looked  at  me  as  who  should  ask:  "Where 
can  you  have  lived  lately?"  but  replied  cour- 
teously: 

"I  will  come  to  that  presently.  The  notion 
struck  me  one  day  in  court,  watching  a  divorce 

76 


WHY  NOT? 

case  I  had  in  hand.  I  was  acting  for  the  petitioner 
— nice  fellow,  friend  of  my  own,  best  type  of 
Englishman.  The  poor  chap  had  said  to  me — as  a 
matter  of  fact,  you  know,  they  all  do:  'I  don't 
like  claimin'  damages.  It  may  be  my  duty;  but 
somehow  I  feel  it's  not  quite  delicate.'  I  told 
him  that  the  law  expected  it.  'But,  of  course/ 
I  said,  'I  quite  understand  your  feelings.  It  is 
awkward.  You're  not  in  any  way  bound  to.' 
'Oh,  well !'  he  said,  'I  suppose  it'll  have  to  be — ; 
no  good  standing  out  against  custom.' 

"Well,  as  I  say,  watching  him  that  afternoon 
in  the  witness-box,  the  inspiration  came  to  me. 
Why  should  innocent  people  be  put  to  all  this 
difficulty  about  making  up  their  minds  whether 
or  no  to  claim  damages,  and  be  left  with  that 
unpleasant  feeling  afterward;  for,  say  what  you 
like,  it  is  awkward  for  men  with  a  sense  of  honour 
— or  is  it  humour?  I  never  know.  Why,  I  re- 
member one  of  my  own  clients — society  man, 
you'd  probably  recollect  his  case — I  had  him  in 
my  office  four  consecutive  days  changing  his 
mind,  and  it  was  only  when,  quite  by  chance,  he 
learned  that  his  wife  really  was  fond  of  the  other 
fellow  that  he  decided  on  putting  in  a  claim. 
Well,  as  I  say,  watching  my  client  in  that  other 
case,  the  idea  came  to  me:  'Why  not  wife-insur- 

77 


WHY  NOT? 

ance  for  misfortunes  of  this  kind?  Is  there  any 
distinction  in  law  between  that  and  any  other 
kind  of  accident?  Here's  a  definite  injury,  to  a 
definite  bit  of  property,  definitely  assessed  on 
hard  facts,  and  paid  for  in  hard  cash,  and  no  more 
account  taken  of  private  feelings,  or  spirituality, 
as  you  might  say,  than  when  you  lose  a  toe  by  a 
defect  in  your  employer's  machine !'  I  turned  it 
over  and  over  and  over  again;  I  could  not  see 
any  distinction,  and  felt  immediately  what  an 
immense  thing  it  was  that  I  had  struck.  Per- 
fectly simple,  too;  I  had  only  to  get  at  the  per- 
centage of  divorce  to  marriage.  Well,  being  a 
bit  of  an  actuary,  I  was  very  soon  able  to  cal- 
culate my  proper  scale  of  premiums.  These  are 
payable,  you  know,  on 'the  same  principle  as  life- 
insurance,  and  work  out  very  small  on  the  whole. 
And — but  this  I  consider  a  stroke  of  genius,  quite 
my  own  idea,  too — if  there's  no  divorce  within 
twenty-five  years  of  taking  out  the  policy,  the 
insured  gets  a  substantial  bonus.  That's  where 
I  rebut  all  possible  charge  of  fostering  immorality. 
For,  you  see,  the  law  permits  you  to  benefit  by 
your  wife's  misconduct — so,  of  course,  does  my 
insurance;  but,  whereas  the  law  holds  out  no 
inducement  to  the  husband  not  to  seek  divorce, 
my  insurance,  through  its  bonus,  does — it  is,  in 

78 


WHY  NOT? 

fact,  a  premium  on  family  life.  No  one  has  had  a 
bonus  yet,  naturally,  because  I've  only  been  es- 
tablished three  years.  But  the  principle  is  abso- 
lute. To  put  it  crudely,  instead  of  a  simple 
benefit  from  the  wife's  infidelity  such  as  the  law 
gives  you,  you  have  a  benefit  from  her  infidelity, 
counteracted  by  a  benefit  from  her  fidelity.  I'm 
anxious  to  make  that  clear,  of  course,  on  moral 
grounds.  You  ask  me,  perhaps,  can  I  afford 
this  bonus?  Certainly — I  allow  for  it  on  the 
figures;  so  that  my  system  is  not  only  morally 
sounder  than  the  law,  but  really  first-rate  busi- 
ness." He  paused,  but,  as  I  did  not  speak,  went 
on  again: 

"I  was  very  anxious  to  have  got  out  a  policy 
which  took  in  also  the  risk  of  breach  of  promise; 
but  at  present  I  haven't  been  able  to  fix  that  up. 
Up  till  marriage,  of  course,  the  whole  thing  is  in 
flux,  and  there's  too  much  danger  of  collusion. 
Still,  the  system's  young  yet,  and  I  don't  despair, 
because  I  know  very  well  that  in  breach-of-prom- 
ise  actions  the  same  question  of  personal  honour 
is  involved,  and  people  with  any  sense  of  humour 
feel  a  great  delicacy  about  bringing  them.  How- 
ever, as  I  say,  the  risk  of  mala  fides  is  too  great  at 
present.  You  may  contend,  of  course,  that  there's 
risk  of  mala  fides  in  my  divorce  insurance,  but  you 

79 


WHY  NOT? 

see  I'm  really  secured  against  that  by  the  Court." 
And  here  he  laid  one  finger  on  his  nose,  and  sunk 
his  voice  almost  to  a  whisper:  "For  no  man  can 
recover  from  me  on  his  policy  unless  the  Court  has 
given  him  his  decree,  which  is  practically  a  certifi- 
cate that  the  misconduct  was  secret  and  the  relations 
of  wife  and  husband  those  of  cat  and  dog.  Unless 
the  Court  is  satisfied  of  this,  you  see,  it  never  grants 
relief;  and  without  a  decree  granted  there's  no  bene- 
fit to  be  had  under  my  policies."  Then,  recovering 
his  voice,  he  went  on  buoyantly:  "I  pride  myself, 
in  fact,  on  not  departing  either  from  the  letter  or 
the  spirit  of  the  law.  All  that  my  system  deals 
with  is  the  matter  of  personal  delicacy.  Under 
my  policies  you  can  go  into  Court,  without  ask- 
ing for  damages,  and  come  out  a  free  man,  without 
a  stain  on  your  honour  and  minus  that  miserable 
feeling  that  people  know  you've  benefited  by  your 
wife's  disgrace.  And  then  you  come  to  me,  and 
I  salve  the  wound.  If  you  think  it  over,  you'll 
see  that  the  thing  is  absolutely  sound.  You  come 
out  of  Court  with  clean  hands.  Instead  of  feel- 
ing the  whole  world's  grinning  at  your  having 
made  money  out  of  your  wife's  infidelity,  not  a 
soul  knows  but  me.  Secrecy,  of  course,  is  guar- 
anteed." 

As  he  spoke,  we  ran  into  a  station,  and  he  arose. 
80 


WHY  NOT? 

"I  get  down  here,  sir/'  he  said,  lifting  his  speck- 
led hat:  "Remember,  I  only  follow  out  the  prin- 
ciple of  the  law — what's  good  enough  for  that 
is  good  enough  for  me.  You  have  my  card,  in 
case  at  any  time !" 


81 


HEY-DAY 

And  the  Recording  Angel  said: 

"  Man !  Millions  of  years  have  passed  since  you 
came  into  being,  and,  now  that  you  can  fly,  and 
speak  without  wires  from  one  end  of  the  earth 
to  the  other,  you  may  well  say  there  is  nothing 
you  cannot  do.  You  have  achieved  triumphs  of 
architecture,  music,  literature,  painting,  and  sci- 
ence, such  as  you  may  never  surpass.  You  have 
sampled  all  the  resources  of  the  earth  and  all  the 
sensations  of  your  soul.  Your  civilisation  is  un- 
doubted. Let  us  consider  its  nature. 

"You  annually  slay,  and  gorge  yourself  on,  more 
billions  of  other  creatures  than  ever  you  slew  and 
ate  in  all  your  history.  This  you  do  for  the  sake 
of  health ! 

"  You  deck  yourself  with  fur  and  feathers,  as  did 
your  first  progenitors,  destroying  in  savage  ways 
myriads  of  creatures  whose  natural  coverings  you 
covet.  This  you  do  for  the  sake  of  beauty ! 

"You  clothe  yourself  in  garments  produced  by 
labour  so  miserably  paid  that  their  makers  are 
starved  of  everything  that  you  appreciate  in  life. 
This  you  do  for  the  sake  of  commerce ! 

83 


HEY-DAY 

"You  prepare  year  by  year  engines  of  destruc- 
tion more  colossal  and  terrific  than  ever  were 
prepared  in  the  darkest  ages  of  your  existence. 
This  you  do  for  the  sake  of  peace ! 

"You  put  these  engines  of  destruction  into  use, 
and  blow  far  more  men  into  far  smaller  pieces 
than  men  have  ever  yet  been  blown.  This  you 
do  for  the  sake  of  honour ! 

"You  pile  up  year  by  year  fortunes  more  stu- 
pendous, and  form  combinations  of  capital  more 
powerful,  than  the  world  has  ever  known,  out  of 
the  labour  of  men  as  poor  and  miserable  as  men 
have  ever  been,  in  towns  blacker,  huger,  and  less 
restful  than  ever  were  yet  constructed.  This  you 
do  for  the  sake  of  progress ! 

"You  organise  and  distribute  journals,  more  and 
more  perfectly  adjusted  to  the  lower  levels  of  so- 
ciety's tastes,  with  a  rapidity  and  completeness 
hitherto  unparalleled.  This  you  do  for  the  sake 
of  knowledge ! 

"You  provide  pageantry  for  the  eye,  by  shows, 
picture  palaces,  and  sports,  such  as  shall  give  au- 
diences the  most  perfect  rest  from  mental  or 
physical  exertion.  This  you  do  for  the  sake  of 
culture ! 

"You  devise  comfort  in  your  hotels,  houses,  and 
means  of  locomotion,  such  as  your  ancestors  never 

84 


HEY-DAY 

dreamed  of  in  their  most  ecstatic  moments.  This 
you  do  for  the  sake  of  your  physique ! 

"You  prosecute  scientific  learning  till  you  are 
acutely  conscious  of  the  nature  and  cure  of  al- 
most all  your  sicknesses.  This  you  do  for  the 
assuagement  of  your  nerves ! 

"You  so  discuss  everything  under  the  sun,  that 
you  no  longer  believe  in  anything.  This  you  do 
for  the  assurance  of  your  spiritual  happiness ! 

"Of  all  this  you  are  extremely  proud.  Man! 
You  are  in  your  hey-day !" 

And  Man  answered:  "Recording  Angel!  You 
have  judged  us  in  our  hey-day.  Hear  us  reply: 

"When  first  in  molten  space  the  protoplasm 
came,  you  watched,  inscrutable,  that  jelly  thing 
profane  with  life  the  breathless  majesty  of  chaos; 
watched  it  live  on,  become  a  fish,  a  bird,  a  beast, 
a  man.  In  caves  and  water-dwellings  our  ances- 
tors held  on  to  life.  Across  snowy  wastes,  in 
trackless  forests,  over  pathless  seas,  they  roamed, 
hopeless,  in  fear  of  every  death.  And,  all  the 
time,  you  sat  up  there,  and  watched  serenely ! 

"During  a  thousand  centuries,  painfully, 
through  every  ill,  past  every  counterstroke  of 
Nature,  our  ancestors  gained  consciousness  of 
self.  You  sat  up  there,  and  frowned ! 

85 


HEY-DAY 

"Through  unimaginable  trouble,  in  grief  darker 
than  night,  with  bitterness  more  bitter  than  the 
sea,  our  ancestors  learned  how  to  love  others  be- 
side self.  You  sat  up  there,  and  took  a  feather 
from  your  wing ! 

"Groping  and  purblind,  whipped  and  hunted 
by  savage  instincts,  failing,  stumbling,  our  ances- 
tors shaped  the  rudiments  of  justice.  You  sat 
up  there,  and  dipped  that  feather  in  a  purple 
cloud ! 

"  Out  of  the  desperate  morasses  and  the  tangled 
woods  of  fear  and  superstition,  their  backs  against 
the  rocky  walls  of  death,  their  eyes  fronting  the 
eternal  abysses  of  uncertainty,  our  ancestors 
won  through  to  the  refuge  of  a  faith  in  their  own 
hearts.  You  sat  up  there,  and  wrote  down  its 
deficiencies ! 

"And  we,  their  children,  in  this  our  hey-day— 
with  what  force  and  faith  we  have  inherited,  med- 
dling, and  muddling,  and  dreaming  of  perfection, 
adventuring,  and  running  riot  in  the  welter  of 
discovery,  now  torpid,  now  raving  mad,  yet  ever 
moving  forward — make  what  we  can  out  of  our 
poor  humanity.  You  sit  up  there,  and  read  us 
the  record  of  our  failures ! 

"  Recording  Angel !  Something  human  is  more 
precious  than  all  the  judgments  of  the  Sky !" 

86 


STUDIES  OF  EXTRAVAGANCE 


I.    THE  WRITER 

Every  morning  when  he  awoke  his  first  thought 
was:  How  am  I?  For  it  was  extremely  impor- 
tant that  he  should  be  well,  seeing  that  when  he 
was  not  well  he  could  neither  produce  what  he 
knew  he  ought,  nor  contemplate  that  lack  of 
production  with  equanimity.  Having  discovered 
that  he  did  not  ache  anywhere,  he  would  say  to 
his  wife:  "Are  you  all  right?"  and,  while  she 
was  answering,  he  would  think:  "Yes — if  I  make 
that  last  chapter  pass  subjectively  through  Blank's 
personality,  then  I  had  better — "  and  so  on.  Not 
having  heard  whether  his  wife  were  all  right,  he 
would  get  out  of  bed  and  do  that  which  he  face- 
tiously called  "abdominable  cult,"  for  it  was  nec- 
essary that  he  should  digest  his  food  and  preserve 
his  figure,  and  while  he  was  doing  it  he  would 
partly  think:  "I  am  doing  this  well,"  and  partly 
he  would  think:  "That  fellow  in  The  Parnassus 
is  quite  wrong — he  simply  doesn't  see — "  And 
pausing  for  a  moment  with  nothing  on,  and  his 
toes  level  with  the  top  of  a  chest  of  drawers,  he 
would  say  to  his  wife:  "What  I  think  about  that 

89 


THE  WRITER 

ParnassiLS  fellow  is  that  he  doesn't  grasp  the  fact 
that  my  books — "  And  he  would  not  fail  to  hear 
her  answer  warmly:  "Of  course  he  doesn't;  he's 
a  perfect  idiot."  He  would  then  shave.  This 
was  his  most  creative  moment,  and  he  would 
soon  cut  himself  and  utter  a  little  groan,  for  it 
would  be  needful  now  to  find  his  special  cotton 
wool  and  stop  the  bleeding,  which  was  a  paltry- 
business  and  not  favourable  to  the  flight  of  gen- 
ius. And  if  his  wife,  taking  advantage  of  the  in- 
cident, said  something  which  she  had  long  been 
waiting  to  say,  he  would  answer,  wondering  a 
little  what  it  was  she  had  said,  and  thinking: 
"There  it  is,  I  get  no  time  for  steady  thought." 
Having  finished  shaving  he  would  bathe,  and 
a  philosophical  conclusion  would  almost  invari- 
ably come  to  him  just  before  he  douched  himself 
with  cold — so  that  he  would  pause,  and  call  out 
through  the  door:  "You  know,  I  think  the  su- 
preme principle — "  And  while  his  wife  was  an- 
swering, he  would  resume  the  drowning  of  her 
words,  having  fortunately  remembered  just  in 
time  that  his  circulation  would  suffer  if  he  did 
not  douse  himself  with  cold  while  he  was  still 
warm.  He  would  dry  himself,  dreamily  develop- 
ing that  theory  of  the  universe  and  imparting  it 
to  his  wife  in  sentences  that  seldom  had  an  end, 

90 


THE  WRITER 

so  that  it  was  not  necessary  for  her  to  answer 
them.  While  dressing  he  would  stray  a  little, 
thinking:  "Why  can't  I  concentrate  myself  on 
my  work;  it's  awful!"  And  if  he  had  by  any 
chance  a  button  off,  he  would  present  himself 
rather  unwillingly,  feeling  that  it  was  a  waste  of 
his  time.  Watching  her  frown  from  sheer  self- 
effacement  over  her  button-sewing,  he  would 
think:  "She  is  wonderful !  How  can  she  put  up 
with  doing  things  for  me  all  day  long  ?  "  And  he 
would  fidget  a  little,  feeling  in  his  bones  that  the 
postman  had  already  come. 

He  went  down  always  thinking:  "Oh,  hang  it! 
this  infernal  post  taking  up  all  my  time!"  And 
as  he  neared  the  breakfast-room,  he  would 
quicken  his  pace;  seeing  a  large  pile  of  letters  on 
the  table,  he  would  say  automatically:  "Curse!" 
and  his  eyes  would  brighten.  If — as  seldom  hap- 
pened— there  were  not  a  green-coloured  wrapper 
enclosing  mentions  of  him  in  the  press,  he  would 
murmur:  "Thank  God!"  and  his  face  would  fall. 

It  was  his  custom  to  eat  feverishly,  walking  a 
good  deal  and  reading  about  himself,  and  when 
his  wife  tried  to  bring  him  to  a  sense  of  his  dis- 
order he  would  tighten  his  lips  without  a  word 
and  think:  "I  have  a  good  deal  of  self-control." 

He  seldom  commenced  work  before  eleven,  for, 
91 


THE  WRITER 

though  he  always  intended  to,  he  found  it  prac- 
tically impossible  not  to  dictate  to  his  wife  things 
about  himself,  such  as  how  he  could  not  lecture 
here;  or  where  he  had  been  born;  or  how  much 
he  would  take  for  this;  and  why  he  would  not 
consider  that;  together  with  those  letters  which 
began: 

"  MY  DEAR , 

"  Thanks  tremendously  for  your  letter  about  my  book, 
and  its  valuable  criticism.  Of  course,  I  think  you  are 
quite  wrong.  .  .  .  You  don't  seem  to  have  grasped  .  .  . 
In  fact,  I  don't  think  you  ever  quite  do  me  justice.  .  .  . 

"Yours  affectionately, 


When  his  wife  had  copied  those  that  might  be 
valuable  after  he  was  dead,  he  would  stamp  the 
envelopes  and,  exclaiming:  "Nearly  eleven — my 
God !"  would  go  somewhere  where  they  think. 

It  was  during  those  hours  when  he  sat  in  a 
certain  chair  with  a  pen  in  his  hand  that  he  was 
able  to  rest  from  thought  about  himself;  save, 
indeed,  in  those  moments,  not  too  frequent,  when 
he  could  not  help  reflecting:  "That's  a  fine  page 
— I  have  seldom  written  anything  better";  or  in 
those  moments,  too  frequent,  when  he  sighed 
deeply  and  thought:  "I  am  not  the  man  I  was." 
About  half  past  one,  he  would  get  up,  with  the 

92 


THE  WRITER 

pages  in  his  hand,  and,  seeking  out  his  wife, 
would  give  them  to  her  to  read,  remarking: 
" Here's  the  wretched  stuff — no  good  at  all";  and, 
taking  a  position  where  he  thought  she  could 
not  see  him,  would  do  such  things  as  did  not 
prevent  his  knowing  what  effect  the  pages  made 
on  her.  If  the  effect  were  good  he  would  often 
feel  how  wonderful  she  was;  if  it  were  not  good 
he  had  at  once  a  chilly  sensation  in  the  pit  of  his 
stomach,  and  ate  very  little  lunch. 

When,  in  the  afternoons,  he  took  his  walks 
abroad,  he  passed  great  quantities  of  things  and 
people  without  noticing,  because  he  was  thinking 
deeply  on  such  questions  as  whether  he  were 
more  of  an  observer  or  more  of  an  imaginative 
artist;  whether  he  were  properly  appreciated  in 
Germany;  and  particularly  whether  one  were 
not  in  danger  of  thinking  too  much  about  oneself. 
But  every  now  and  then  he  would  stop  and  say 
to  himself:  "I  really  must  see  more  of  life,  I 
really  must  take  in  more  fuel";  and  he  would 
passionately  fix  his  eyes  on  a  cloud,  or  a  flower, 
or  a  man  walking,  and  there  would  instantly 
come  into  his  mind  the  thought:  "I  have  writ- 
ten twenty  books — ten  more  will  make  thirty — 

that  cloud  is  grey";  or:  "That  fellow  X is 

jealous  of  me!    This  flower  is  blue";  or:  "This 

93 


THE  WRITER 

man  is  walking  very — very —  D — n  The  Morn- 
ing Muff,  it  always  runs  me  down!"  And  he 
would  have  a  sort  of  sore,  beaten  feeling,  knowing 
that  he  had  not  observed  those  things  as  accu- 
rately as  he  would  have  wished  to. 

During  these  excursions,  too,  he  would  often 
reflect  impersonally  upon  matters  of  the  day, 
large  questions  of  art,  public  policy,  and  the 
human  soul;  and  would  almost  instantly  find  that 
he  had  always  thought  this  or  that;  and  at 
once  see  the  necessity  for  putting  his  conclusion 
forward  in  his  book  or  in  the  press,  phrasing  it, 
of  course,  in  a  way  that  no  one  else  could;  and 
there  would  start  up  before  him  little  bits  of 
newspaper  with  these  words  on  them:  "No  one, 

perhaps,  save  Mr.  ,  could  have  so  ably  set 

forth  the  case  for  Baluchistan" ;  or,  "In  The  Daily 
Miracle  there  is  a  noble  letter  from  that  eminent 

writer,  Mr. ,  pleading  against  the  hyperspirit- 

ualism  of  our  age." 

Very  often  he  would  say  to  himself,  as  he  walked 
with  eyes  fixed  on  things  that  he  did  not  see: 
"This  existence  is  not  healthy.  I  really  must 
get  away  and  take  a  complete  holiday,  and  not 
think  at  all  about  my  work;  I  am  getting  too 
self-centred."  And  he  would  go  home  and  say  to 
his  wife:  "Let's  go  to  Sicily,  or  Spain,  or  some- 

94 


THE  WRITER 

where.  Let's  get  away  from  all  this,  and  just 
live."  And  when  she  answered:  "How  jolly!" 
he  would  repeat,  a  little  absently:  "How  jolly!" 
considering  what  would  be  the  best  arrangement 
for  forwarding  his  letters.  And  if,  as  sometimes 
happened,  they  did  go,  he  would  spend  almost  a 
whole  morning  living,  and  thinking  how  jolly  it 
was  to  be  away  from  everything;  but  toward  the 
afternoon  he  would  feel  a  sensation  as  though 
he  were  a  sofa  that  had  been  sat  on  too  much,  a 
sort  of  subsidence  very  deep  within  him.  This 
would  be  followed  in  the  evening  by  a  disinclina- 
tion to  live;  and  that  feeling  would  grow  until 
on  the  third  day  he  received  his  letters,  together 
with  a  green-coloured  wrapper  enclosing  some 
mentions  of  himself,  and  he  would  say:  "Those 
fellows — no  getting  away  from  them!"  and  feel 
irresistibly  impelled  to  sit  down.  Having  done 
so  he  would  take  up  his  pen,  not  writing  anything, 
indeed — because  of  the  determination  to  "live," 
as  yet  not  quite  extinct — but  comparatively  easy 
in  his  mind.  On  the  following  day  he  would  say 
to  his  wife:  "I  believe  I  can  work  here."  And 
she  would  answer,  smiling:  "That's  splendid"; 
and  he  would  think:  "She's  wonderful!"  and 
begin  to  write. 

On  other  occasions,  while  walking  the  streets 
95 


THE  WRITER 

or  about  the  countryside,  he  would  suddenly  be 
appalled  at  his  own  ignorance,  and  would  say  to 
himself:  "I  know  simply  nothing — I  must  read." 
And  going  home  he  would  dictate  to  his  wife  the 
names  of  a  number  of  books  to  be  procured  from 
the  library.  When  they  arrived  he  would  look 
at  them  a  little  gravely  and  think:  "By  Jove! 
Have  I  got  to  read  those?"  and  the  same  eve- 
ning he  would  take  one  up.  He  would  not,  how- 
ever, get  beyond  the  fourth  page,  if  it  were  a 
novel,  before  he  would  say:  "Muck!  He  can't 
write!"  and  would  feel  absolutely  stimulated  to 
take  up  his  own  pen  and  write  something  that 
was  worth  reading.  Sometimes,  on  the  other 
hand,  he  would  put  the  novel  down  after  the 
third  page,  exclaiming:  "By  Jove!  He  can 
write !"  And  there  would  rise  within  him  such  a 
sense  of  dejection  at  his  own  inferiority  that  he 
would  feel  simply  compelled  to  try  to  see  whether 
he  really  was  inferior. 

But  if  the  book  were  not  a  novel  he  sometimes 
finished  the  first  chapter  before  one  of  two  feel- 
ings came  over  him:  Either  that  what  he  had  just 
read  was  what  he  had  himself  long  thought — 
that,  of  course,  would  be  when  the  book  was  a 
good  one;  or  that  what  he  had  just  read  was  not 
true,  or  at  all  events  debatable.  In  each  of  these 

96 


THE  WRITER 

events  he  found  it  impossible  to  go  on  reading, 
but  would  remark  to  his  wife:  "This  fellow  says 
what  I've  always  said";  or,  "This  fellow  says 
so  and  so,  now  I  say — "  and  he  would  argue 
the  matter  with  her,  taking  both  sides  of  the 
question,  so  as  to  save  her  all  unnecessary  speech. 

There  were  times  when  he  felt  that  he  abso- 
lutely must  hear  music,  and  he  would  enter  the 
concert-hall  with  his  wife  in  the  pleasurable  cer- 
tainty that  he  was  going  to  lose  himself.  Toward 
the  middle  of  the  second  number,  especially  if 
it  happened  to  be  music  that  he  liked,  he  would 
begin  to  nod;  and  presently,  on  waking  up,  would 
get  a  feeling  that  he  really  was  an  artist.  From 
that  moment  on  he  was  conscious  of  certain  noises 
being  made  somewhere  in  his  neighbourhood  caus- 
ing a  titillation  of  his  nerves  favourable  to  deep 
and  earnest  thoughts  about  his  work.  On  going 
out  his  wife  would  ask  him:  "Wasn't  the  Mozart 
lovely?"  or,  "How  did  you  like  the  Strauss?" 
and  he  would  answer:  "Rather!"  wondering  a 
little  which  was  which;  or  he  would  look  at  her 
out  of  the  corner  of  his  eye  and  glance  secretly 
at  the  programme  to  see  whether  he  had  really 
heard  them,  and  which  Strauss  it  might  be. 

He  was  extremely  averse  to  being  interviewed, 
or  photographed,  and  all  that  sort  of  publicity, 

97 


THE  WRITER 

and  only  made  exceptions  in  most  cases  because 
his  wife  would  say  to  him:  "Oh!  I  think  you 
ought";  or  because  he  could  not  bear  to  refuse 
anybody  anything;  together,  perhaps,  with  a  sort 
of  latent  dislike  of  waste,  deep  down  in  his  soul. 
When  he  saw  the  results  he  never  failed  to  ejacu- 
late: "Never  again!  No,  really — never  again! 
The  whole  thing  is  wrong  and  stupid !"  And  he 
would  order  a  few  copies. 

For  he  dreaded  nothing  so  much  as  the  thought 
that  he  might  become  an  egoist,  and,  knowing  the 
dangers  of  his  profession,  fought  continually 
against  it.  Often  he  would  complain  to  his  wife: 
"I  don't  think  of  you  enough."  And  she  would 
smile  and  say:  "Don't  you?"  And  he  would 
feel  better,  having  confessed  his  soul.  Sometimes 
for  an  hour  at  a  time  he  would  make  really  heroic 
efforts  not  to  answer  her  before  having  really 
grasped  what  she  had  said;  and  to  check  a  tend- 
ency, that  he  sometimes  feared  was  growing  on 
him,  to  say:  "What?"  whether  he  had  heard  or 
no.  In  truth,  he  was  not  (as  he  often  said)  con- 
stitutionally given  to  small  talk.  Conversation 
that  did  not  promise  a  chance  of  dialectic  victory 
was  hardly  to  his  liking;  so  that  he  felt  bound  in 
sincerity  to  eschew  it,  which  sometimes  caused 
him  to  sit  silent  for  "quite  a  while,"  as  the  Amer- 

98 


THE  WRITER 

icans  have  phrased  it.  But  once  committed  to 
an  argument  he  found  it  difficult  to  leave  off, 
having  a  natural,  if  somewhat  sacred,  belief  in  his 
own  convictions. 

His  attitude  to  his  creations  was,  perhaps,  pe- 
culiar. He  either  did  not  mention  them,  or 
touched  on  them,  if  absolutely  obliged,  with  a 
light  and  somewhat  disparaging  tongue;  this  did 
not,  indeed,  come  from  any  real  distrust  of  them, 
but  rather  from  a  superstitious  feeling  that  one 
must  not  tempt  Providence  in  the  solemn  things 
of  life.  If  other  people  touched  on  them  in  the 
same  way,  he  had,  not  unnaturally,  a  feeling  of 
real  pain,  such  as  comes  to  a  man  when  he  sees 
an  instance  of  cruelty  or  injustice.  And,  though 
something  always  told  him  that  it  was  neither 
wise  nor  dignified  to  notice  outrages  of  this  order, 
he  would  mutter  to  his  wife:  "Well,  I  suppose  it 
is  true — I  can't  write";  feeling,  perhaps,  that — 
if  he  could  not  with  decency  notice  such  in  juries, 
she  might.  And,  indeed,  she  did,  using  warmer 
words  than  even  he  felt  justified,  which  was 
soothing. 

After  tea  it  was  his  habit  to  sit  down  a  second 
time,  pen  in  hand;  not  infrequently  he  would 
spend  those  hours  divided  between  the  feeling 
that  it  was  his  duty  to  write  something  and  the 

99 


THE  WRITER 

feeling  that  it  was  his  duty  not  to  write  any- 
thing if  he  had  nothing  to  say;  and  he  generally 
wrote  a  good  deal;  for  deep  down  he  was  con- 
vinced that  if  he  did  not  write  he  would  gradu- 
ally fade  away  till  there  would  be  nothing  left 
for  him  to  read  and  think  about,  and,  though  he 
was  often  tempted  to  believe  and  even  to  tell  his 
wife  that  fame  was  an  unworthy  thing,  he  always 
deferred  that  pleasure,  afraid,  perhaps,  of  too 
much  happiness. 

In  regard  to  the  society  of  his  fellows  he  liked 
almost  anybody,  though  a  little  impatient  with 
those,  especially  authors,  who  took  themselves 
too  seriously;  and  there  were  just  one  or  two 
that  he  really  could  not  stand,  they  were  so  ob- 
viously full  of  jealousy,  a  passion  of  which  he  was 
naturally  intolerant  and  had,  of  course,  no  need 
to  indulge  in.  And  he  would  speak  of  them  with 
extreme  dryness — nothing  more,  disdaining  to  dis- 
parage. It  was,  perhaps,  a  weakness  in  him  that 
he  found  it  difficult  to  accept  adverse  criticism 
as  anything  but  an  expression  of  that  same  yel- 
low sickness;  and  yet  there  were  moments  when 
no  words  would  adequately  convey  his  low  opin- 
ion of  his  own  powers.  At  such  times  he  would 
seek  out  his  wife  and  confide  to  her  his  conviction 
that  he  was  a  poor  thing,  no  good  at  all,  with- 

100 


THE  WRITER 

out  a  thought  in  his  head;  and  while  she  was  re- 
plying: "Rubbish !  You  know  there's  nobody  to 
hold  a  candle  to  you/'  or  words  to  that  effect,  he 
would  look  at  her  tragically,  and  murmur:  "Ah! 
you're  prejudiced!"  Only  at  such  supreme  mo- 
ments of  dejection,  indeed,  did  he  feel  it  a  pity 
that  he  had  married  her,  seeing  how  much  more 
convincing  her  words  would  have  been  if  he  had 
not. 

He  never  read  the  papers  till  the  evening, 
partly  because  he  had  not  time,  and  partly  be- 
cause he  so  seldom  found  anything  in  them. 
This  was  not  remarkable,  for  he  turned  their 
leaves  quickly,  pausing,  indeed,  naturally,  if  there 
were  any  mention  of  his  name;  and  if  his  wife 
asked  him  whether  he  had  read  this  or  that  he 
would  answer:  "No,"  surprised  at  the  funny 
things  that  seemed  to  interest  her. 

Before  going  up  to  bed  he  would  sit  and  smoke. 
And  sometimes  fancies  would  come  to  him,  and 
sometimes  none.  Once  in  a  way  he  would  look 
up  at  the  stars,  and  think:  "What  a  worm  I  am ! 
This  wonderful  Infinity!  I  must  get  more  of  it 
—more  of  it  into  my  work;  more  of  the  feeling 
that  the  whole  is  marvellous  and  great,  and  man 
a  little  clutch  of  breath  and  dust,  an  atom,  a 
straw,  a  nothing!" 

101 


THE  WRITER 

And  a  sort  of  exaltation  would  seize  on  him, 
so  that  he  knew  that  if  only  he  did  get  that  into 
his  work,  as  he  wished  to,  as  he  felt  at  that  mo- 
ment that  he  could,  he  would  be  the  greatest 
writer  the  world  had  ever  seen,  the  greatest  man, 
almost  greater  than  he  wished  to  be,  almost  too 
great  to  be  mentioned  in  the  press,  greater  than 
Infinity  itself — for  would  he  not  be  Infinity's 
creator?  And  suddenly  he  would  check  himself 
with  the  thought:  "I  must  be  careful — I  must 
be  careful.  If  I  let  my  brain  go  at  this  time  of 
night,  I  sha'n't  write  a  decent  word  to-morrow!" 

And  he  would  drink  some  milk  and  go  to  bed. 


102 


II.    THE  CRITIC 

He  often  thought:  "This  is  a  dog's  life!  I 
must  give  it  up,  and  strike  out  for  myself.  If  I 
can't  write  better  than  most  of  these  fellows,  it'll 
be  very  queer."  But  he  had  not  yet  done  so. 
He  had  in  his  extreme  youth  published  fiction, 
but  it  had  never  been  the  best  work  of  which  he 
was  capable — it  was  not  likely  that  it  could  be, 
seeing  that  even  then  he  was  constantly  diverted 
from  the  ham-bone  of  his  inspiration  by  the  duty 
of  perusing  and  passing  judgment  on  the  work  of 
other  men. 

If  pressed  to  say  exactly  why  he  did  not  strike 
out  for  himself,  he  found  it  difficult  to  answer, 
and  what  he  answered  was  hardly  as  true  as  he 
could  have  wished;  for,  though  truthful,  he  was 
not  devoid  of  the  instinct  of  self-preservation. 
He  could  hardly,  for  example,  admit  that  he  pre- 
ferred to  think  what  much  better  books  he  could 
have  written  if  only  he  had  not  been  handicapped, 
to  actually  striking  out  and  writing  them.  To  be- 
lieve this  was  an  inward  comfort  not  readily  to 

103 


THE  CRITIC 

be  put  to  the  rude  test  of  actual  experience.  Nor 
would  it  have  been  human  of  him  to  acknowledge 
a  satisfaction  in  feeling  that  he  could  put  in 
their  proper  places  those  who  had  to  an  extent, 
as  one  might  say,  retarded  his  creative  genius 
by  compelling  him  to  read  their  books.  But 
these,  after  all,  were  but  minor  factors  in  his  long 
hesitation,  for  he  was  not  a  conceited  or  mali- 
cious person.  Fundamentally,  no  doubt,  he  lived 
what  he  called  "a  dog's  life"  with  pleasure,  partly 
because  he  was  used  to  it — and  what  a  man  is 
used  to  he  is  loath  to  part  with;  partly  because 
he  really  had  a  liking  for  books;  and  partly  be- 
cause to  be  a  judge  is  better  than  to  be  judged. 
And  no  one  could  deny  that  he  had  a  distinctly 
high  conception  of  his  functions.  He  had  long 
laid  down  for  himself  certain  leading  principles 
of  professional  conduct,  from  which  he  never  de- 
parted, such  as  that  a  critic  must  not  have  any 
personal  feelings,  or  be  influenced  by  any  private 
considerations  whatever.  This,  no  doubt,  was 
why  he  often  went  a  little  out  of  his  way  to  be 
more  severe  than  usual  with  writers  whom  he  sus- 
pected of  a  secret  hope  that  personal  acquaintance- 
ship might  incline  him  to  favour  them.  He  would, 
indeed,  carry  that  principle  further,  and,  where 
he  had,  out  of  an  impersonal  enthusiasm  at  some 

104 


THE  CRITIC 

time  or  another,  written  in  terms  of  striking 
praise,  he  would  make  an  opportunity  later  on  of 
deliberately  taking  that  writer  down  a  peg  or 
two  lower  than  he  deserved,  lest  his  praise  might 
be  suspected  of  having  been  the  outcome  of  per- 
sonal motives,  or  of  gush — for  which  he  had  a 
great  abhorrence.  In  this  way  he  preserved  a 
remarkably  pure  sense  of  independence;  a  feel- 
ing that  he  was  master  in  his  own  house,  to  be 
dictated  to  only  by  a  proper  conviction  of  his 
own  importance.  It  is  true  that  there  were  cer- 
tain writers  whom,  for  one  reason  or  another,  he 
could  not  very  well  stand;  some  having  written 
to  him  to  point  out  inaccuracies,  or  counter  one 
of  his  critical  conclusions,  or,  still  worse,  thanked 
him  for  having  seen  exactly  what  they  had  meant 
— a  very  unwise  and  even  undignified  thing  to 
do,  as  he  could  not  help  thinking;  others,  again, 
having  excited  in  him  a  natural  dislike  by  their 
appearance,  conduct,  or  manner  of  thought,  or 
by  having,  perhaps,  acquired  too  rapid  or  too 
swollen  a  reputation  to  be,  in  his  opinion,  good 
for  them.  In  such  cases,  of  course,  he  was  not 
so  unhuman  as  to  disguise  his  convictions.  For 
he  was,  before  all  things,  an  Englishman  with  a 
very  strong  belief  in  the  freest  play  for  individual 
taste.  But  of  almost  any  first  book  by  an  un- 

105 


THE  CRITIC 

known  author  he  wrote  with  an  impersonality 
which  it  would  have  been  difficult  to  surpass. 

Then  there  was  his  principle  that  one  must 
never  be  influenced  in  judging  a  book  by  any- 
thing one  has  said  of  a  previous  book  by  the 
same  writer — each  work  standing  entirely  on  its 
own  basis.  He  found  this  important,  and  made 
a  point  of  never  rereading  his  own  criticisms; 
so  that  the  rhythm  of  his  judgment,  which,  if  it 
had  risen  to  a  work  in  1920,  would  fall  over  the 
author's  next  in  1921,  was  entirely  unbiassed  by 
recollection,  and  followed  merely  those  immutable 
laws  of  change  and  the  moon  so  potent  in  regard 
to  tides  and  human  affairs. 

For  sameness  and  consistency  he  had  a  natural 
contempt.  It  was  the  unexpected  both  in  art  and 
criticism  that  he  particularly  looked  for;  anything 
being,  as  he  said,  preferable  to  dulness — a  senti- 
ment in  which  he  was  supported  by  the  public; 
not  that,  to  do  him  justice,  this  weighed  with 
him,  for  he  had  a  genuine  distrust  of  the  public, 
as  was  proper  for  one  sitting  in  a  seat  of  judg- 
ment. He  knew  that  there  were  so-called  critics 
who  had  a  kind  of  formula  for  each  writer,  as 
divines  have  sermons  suitable  to  certain  occasions. 
For  example:  "We  have  in  'The  Mazy  Swim* 
another  of  Mr.  Hyphen  Dash's  virile  stories.  .  .  . 

106 


THE  CRITIC 

We  can  thoroughly  recommend  this  pulsating  tale, 
with  its  true  and  beautiful  character  study  of 
Little  Katie,  to  every  healthy  reader  as  one  of 
the  best  that  Mr.  Hyphen  Dash  has  yet  given  us." 
Or:  "We  cannot  say  that  'The  Mazy  Swim'  is 
likely  to  increase  Mr.  Hyphen  Dash's  reputation. 
It  is  sheer  melodrama,  such  as  we  are  beginning 
to  expect  from  this  writer.  .  .  .  The  whole  is 
artificial  to  a  degree.  .  .  .  No  sane  reader  will, 
for  a  moment,  believe  in  Little  Katie."  Toward 
this  sort  of  thing  he  showed  small  patience,  hav- 
ing noticed  with  some  acumen  a  relationship  be- 
tween the  name  of  the  writer,  the  politics  of  the 
paper,  and  the  temper  of  the  criticism.  No !  For 
him,  if  criticism  did  not  embody  the  individual 
mood  and  temper  of  the  critic,  it  was  not  worthy 
of  the  name. 

But  the  canon  which  of  all  he  regarded  as  most 
sacred  was  this:  A  critic  must  surrender  himself 
to  the  mood  and  temper  of  the  work  he  is  crit- 
icising, take  the  thing  as  it  is  with  its  own  special 
method  and  technique,  its  own  point  of  view, 
and,  only  when  all  that  is  admitted,  let  his  critical 
faculty  off  the  chain.  He  was  never  tired  of  in- 
sisting on  this,  both  to  himself  and  others,  and 
never  sat  down  to  a  book  without  having  it  firmly 
in  his  mind.  Not  infrequently,  however,  he  found 

107 


THE  CRITIC 

that  the  author  was,  as  it  were,  wilfully  employ- 
ing a  technique  or  writing  in  a  mood  with  which 
he  had  no  sympathy,  or  had  chosen  a  subject  ob- 
viously distasteful,  or  a  set  of  premises  that  did 
not  lead  to  the  conclusion  which  he  would  have 
preferred.  In  such  cases  his  scrupulous  honesty 
warned  him  not  to  compromise  with  his  con- 
science, but  to  say  outright  that  it  would  have 
been  better  if  the  technique  of  the  story  had  been 
objective  instead  of  subjective;  that  the  morbid- 
ity of  the  work  prevented  serious  consideration 
of  a  subject  which  should  never  have  been  chosen; 
or  that  he  would  ever  maintain  that  the  hero  was 
too  weak  a  character  to  be  a  hero,  and  the  book, 
therefore,  of  little  interest.  If  any  one  pointed 
out  to  him  that  had  the  hero  been  a  strong  char- 
acter there  would  have  been  no  book,  it  being,  in 
point  of  fact,  the  study  of  a  weak  character,  he 
would  answer:  "That  may  be  so,  but  it  does  not 
affect  what  I  say — the  book  would  have  been 
better  and  more  important  if  it  had  been  the 
study  of  a  strong  character."  And  he  would 
take  the  earliest  opportunity  of  enforcing  his  re- 
corded criticism  that  the  hero  was  no  hero,  and 
the  book  no  book  to  speak  of.  For,  though  not 
obstinate,  he  was  a  man  who  stood  to  his  guns. 
He  took  his  duty  to  the  public  very  seriously,  and 

108 


THE  CRITIC 

felt  it,  as  it  were,  a  point  of  honour  never  to 
admit  himself  in  the  wrong.  It  was  so  easy  to 
do  that  and  so  fatal;  and  the  fact  of  being  anony- 
mous, as  on  the  whole  he  preferred  to  be,  made  it 
all  the  harder  to  abstain  (on  principle  and  for  the 
dignity  of  criticism)  from  noticing  printed  con- 
tradictions to  his  conclusions. 

In  spite  of  all  the  heart  he  put  into  his  work, 
there  were  times  when,  like  other  men,  he  suffered 
from  dejection,  feeling  that  the  moment  had  really 
come  when  he  must  either  strike  out  for  him- 
self into  creative  work,  or  compile  a  volume  of 
synthetic  criticism.  And  he  would  say:  "None 
of  us  fellows  are  doing  any  constructive  critical 
work;  no  one  nowadays  seems  to  have  any  con- 
ception of  the  first  principles  of  criticism."  Hav- 
ing talked  that  theory  out  thoroughly  he  would 
feel  better,  and  next  day  would  take  an  oppor- 
tunity of  writing:  "We  are  not  like  the  academic 
French,  to  whom  the  principles  of  criticism  are 
so  terribly  important;  our  genius  lies  rather  in 
individual  judgments,  pliant  and  changing  as  the 
works  they  judge." 

There  was  that  in  him  which,  like  the  land  from 
which  he  sprang,  could  ill  brook  control.  He 
approved  of  discipline,  but  knew  exactly  where 
it  was  deleterious  to  apply  it  to  himself;  and 

109 


THE  CRITIC 

no  one,  perhaps,  had  a  finer  and  larger  concep- 
tion of  individual  liberty.  In  this  way  he  main- 
tained the  best  traditions  of  a  calling  whose  very 
essence  was  superiority.  In  course  of  conversa- 
tion he  would  frequently  admit,  being  a  man  of 
generous  calibre,  that  the  artist,  by  reason  of  long 
years  of  devoted  craftsmanship,  had  possibly  the 
most  intimate  knowledge  of  his  art,  but  he  would 
not  fail  to  point  out,  and  very  wisely,  that  there 
was  no  such  unreliable  testimony  as  that  of  ex- 
perts, who  had  an  axe  to  grind,  each  of  his  own 
way  of  doing  things;  for  comprehensive  views 
of  literature  seen  in  due  perspective  there  was 
nothing — he  thought — like  the  trained  critic,  ris- 
ing superior,  as  it  were  professionally,  to  myopia 
and  individual  prejudice. 

Of  the  new  school  who  maintained  that  true 
criticism  was  but  reproduction  in  terms  of  sym- 
pathy, and  just  as  creative  as  the  creative  work  it 
reproduced,  he  was  a  little  impatient,  not  so  much 
on  the  ground  that  to  make  a  model  of  a  moun- 
tain was  not  quite  the  same  thing  as  to  make  the 
mountain;  but  because  he  felt  in  his  bones  that 
the  true  creativeness  of  criticism  (in  which  he 
had  a  high  belief)  was  its  destructive  and  satiric 
quality;  its  power  of  reducing  things  to  rubbish 
and  clearing  them  away,  ready  for  the  next  lot. 

110 


THE  CRITIC 

Instinct,  fortified  by  his  own  experience,  had 
guided  him  to  that  conclusion.  Possibly,  too, 
the  conviction,  always  lurking  deep  within  him, 
that  the  time  was  coming  when  he  would  strike 
out  for  himself  and  show  the  world  how  a  work 
of  art  really  should  be  built,  was  in  some  sort 
responsible  for  the  necessity  he  felt  to  keep  the 
ground  well  cleared. 

He  was  nearly  fifty  when  his  clock  chimed, 
and  he  began  seriously  to  work  at  the  creation 
of  that  masterpiece  which  was  to  free  him  from 
"a  dog's  life,"  and,  perhaps,  fill  its  little  niche  in 
the  gallery  of  immortality.  He  worked  at  it  hap- 
pily enough  till  one  day,  at  the  end  of  the  fifth 
month,  he  had  the  misfortune  to  read  through 
what  he  had  written.  With  his  critical  faculty 
he  was  able  to  perceive  that  which  gave  him  no 
little  pain — every  chapter,  most  pages,  and  many 
sentences  destroyed  the  one  immediately  preced- 
ing. He  searched  with  intense  care  for  that  co- 
herent thread  which  he  had  suspected  of  running 
through  the  whole.  Here  and  there  he  seemed 
to  come  on  its  track,  then  it  would  vanish.  This 
gave  him  great  anxiety. 

Abandoning  thought  for  the  moment,  he  wrote 
on.  He  paused  again  toward  the  end  of  the 
seventh  month,  and  once  more  patiently  reviewed 

111 


THE  CRITIC 

the  whole.  This  time  he  found  four  distinct 
threads  that  did  not  seem  to  meet;  but  still  more 
puzzling  was  the  apparent  absence  of  any  individ- 
ual flavour.  He  was  staggered.  Before  all  he 
prized  that  quality,  and  throughout  his  career  had 
fostered  it  in  himself.  To  be  unsapped  in  whim 
or  fancy,  to  be  independent,  had  been  the  very 
salt  of  his  existence  as  a  critic.  And  now,  and 
now — when  his  hour  had  struck,  and  he  was  in 
the  very  throes  of  that  long-deferred  creation,  to 
find !  He  put  thought  away  again,  and  dog- 
gedly wrote  on. 

At  the  end  of  the  ninth  month,  in  a  certain  ex- 
altation, he  finished;  and  slowly,  with  intense  con- 
centration, looked  at  what  he  had  produced  from 
beginning  to  end.  And  as  he  looked  something 
clutched  at  him  within,  and  he  felt  frozen.  The 
thing  did  not  move,  it  had  no  pulse,  no  breath, 
no  colour — it  was  dead. 

And  sitting  there  before  that  shapeless  master- 
piece, still-born,  without  a  spirit  or  the  impress 
of  a  personality,  a  horrid  thought  crept  and  rat- 
tled in  his  brain.  Had  he,  in  his  independence,  in 
his  love  of  being  a  law  unto  himself,  become  so 
individual  that  he  had  no  individuality  left?  Was 
it  possible  that  he  had  judged,  and  judged,  and — 
not  been  judged,  too  long?  It  was  not  true — 

112 


THE  CRITIC 

not  true !  Locking  the  soft  and  flavourless  thing 
away,  he  took  up  the  latest  novel  sent  him;  and 
sat  down  to  read  it.  But,  as  he  read,  the  pages 
of  his  own  work  would  implant  themselves  above 
those  that  he  turned  and  turned.  At  last  he  put 
the  book  down,  and  took  up  pen  to  review  it. 
"This  novel,"  he  wrote,  "is  that  most  pathetic 
thing,  the  work  of  a  man  who  has  burned  the 
lamp  till  the  lamp  has  burned  him;  who  has 
nourished  and  cultured  his  savour,  and  fed  his 
idiosyncrasies,  till  he  has  dried  and  withered, 
without  savour  left."  And,  having  written  that 
damnation  of  the  book  that  was  not  his  own,  the 
blood  began  once  more  flowing  in  his  veins,  and 
he  felt  warm. 


113 


III.    THE  PLAIN  MAN 

He  was  plain.  It  was  his  great  quality.  Others 
might  have  graces,  subtleties,  originality,  fire,  and 
charm;  they  had  not  his  plainness.  It  was  that 
which  made  him  so  important,  not  only  in  his 
country's  estimation,  but  in  his  own.  For  he  felt 
that  nothing  was  more  valuable  to  the  world  than 
for  a  man  to  have  no  doubts,  and  no  fancies,  but 
to  be  quite  plain  about  everything.  And  the 
knowledge  that  he  was  looked  up  to  by  the  press, 
the  pulpit,  and  the  politician  sustained  him  in 
the  daily  perfecting  of  that  unique  personality 
which  he  shared  with  all  other  plain  men.  In  an 
age  which  bred  so  much  that  was  freakish  and 
peculiar,  to  know  that  there  was  always  himself 
with  his  sane  and  plain  outlook  to  fall  back  on, 
was  an  extraordinary  comfort  to  him.  He  knew 
that  he  could  rely  on  his  own  judgment,  and 
never  scrupled  to  give  it  to  a  public  which  never 
tired  of  asking  for  it. 

In  literary  matters  especially  was  it  sought 
for,  as  invaluable.  Whether  he  had  read  an  au- 

114 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

thor  or  not,  he  knew  what  to  think  of  him.  For 
he  had  in  his  time  unwittingly  lighted  on  books 
before  he  knew  what  he  was  doing.  They  had 
served  him  as  fixed  stars  forever  after;  so  that  if 
he  heard  any  writer  spoken  of  as  "advanced/' 
"erotic,"  "socialistic,"  "morbid,"  "pessimistic," 
"tragic,"  or  what  not  unpleasant,  he  knew  ex- 
actly what  he  was  like,  and  thereafter  only  read 
him  by  accident.  He  liked  a  healthy  tale,  pref- 
erably of  love  or  of  adventure  (of  detective  sto- 
ries he  was,  perhaps,  fondest),  and  insisted  upon 
a  happy  ending,  for,  as  he  very  justly  said,  there 
was  plenty  of  unhappiness  in  life  without  gratu- 
itously adding  to  it,  and  as  to  "ideas,"  he  could 
get  all  he  wanted  and  to  spare  from  the  papers. 
He  deplored  altogether  the  bad  habit  that  litera- 
ture seemed  to  have  of  seeking  out  situations  which 
explored  the  recesses  of  the  human  spirit  or  of 
the  human  institution.  As  a  plain  man  he  felt 
this  to  be  unnecessary.  He  himself  was  not  con- 
scious of  having  these  recesses,  or  perhaps  too 
conscious,  knowing  that  if  he  once  began  to  look, 
there  would  be  no  end  to  it;  nor  would  he  admit 
the  use  of  staring  through  the  plain  surface  of 
society's  arrangements.  To  do  so,  he  thought, 
greatly  endangered,  if  it  did  not  altogether  de- 
stroy, those  simple  faculties  which  men  required 

115 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

for  the  fulfilment  of  the  plain  duties  of  every-day 
life,  such  as:  Item,  the  acquisition  and  invest- 
ment of  money;  item,  the  attendance  at  church 
and  maintenance  of  religious  faith;  item,  the 
control  of  wife  and  children;  item,  the  serenity 
of  nerves  and  digestion;  item,  contentment  with 
things  as  they  were. 

For  there  was  just  that  difference  between  him 
and  all  those  of  whom  he  strongly  disapproved, 
that  whereas  they  wanted  to  see  things  as  they 
were,  he  wanted  to  keep  things  as  they  were. 
But  he  would  not  for  a  moment  have  admitted 
this  little  difference  to  be  sound,  since  his  in- 
stinct told  him  that  he  himself  saw  things  as  they 
were  better  than  ever  did  such  cranky  people. 
If  a  human  being  had  got  to  get  into  spiritual 
fixes,  as  those  fellows  seemed  to  want  one  to  be- 
lieve, then  certainly  the  whole  unpleasant  matter 
should  be  put  into  poetry,  and  properly  removed 
from  comprehension.  "And,  anyway,"  he  would 
say:  "In  real  life,  I  shall  know  it  fast  enough 
when  I  get  there,  and  I'm  not  going  to  waste 
my  tune  nosin'  it  over  beforehand."  His  view 
of  literary  and,  indeed,  all  art,  was  that  it  should 
help  him  to  be  cheerful.  And  he  would  make 
a  really  extraordinary  outcry  if  amongst  a  hun- 
dred cheerful  plays  and  novels  he  inadvertently 

116 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

came  across  one  that  was  tragic.  At  once  he 
would  write  to  the  papers  to  complain  of  the 
gloomy  tone  of  modern  literature;  and  the  papers, 
with  few  exceptions,  would  echo  his  cry,  because 
he  was  the  plain  man,  and  took  them  in.  "What 
on  earth,"  he  would  remark,  "is  the  good  of 
showin'  me  a  lot  of  sordid  sufferin'?  It  doesn't 
make  me  any  happier.  Besides" — he  would  add 
— "it  isn't  art.  The  function  of  art  is  beauty." 
Some  one  had  told  him  this,  and  he  was  very 
emphatic  on  the  point,  going  religiously  to  any 
show  where  there  was  a  great  deal  of  light  and 
colour.  The  shapes  of  women  pleased  him,  too, 
up  to  a  point.  But  he  knew  where  to  stop;  for 
he  felt  himself,  as  it  were,  the  real  censor  of 
the  morals  of  his  country.  When  the  plain  man 
was  shocked  it  was  time  to  suppress  the  enter- 
tainment, whether  play,  dance,  or  novel.  Some- 
thing told  him  that  he,  beyond  all  other  men, 
knew  what  was  good  for  his  wife  and  children. 
He  often  meditated  on  that  question  coming  in 
to  the  City  from  his  house  in  Surrey;  for  in  the 
train  he  used  to  see  men  reading  novels,  and  this 
stimulated  his  imagination.  Essentially  a  be- 
liever in  liberty,  like  every  Englishman,  he  was 
only  for  putting  down  a  thing  when  it  offended 
his  own  taste.  In  speaking  with  his  friends  on 

117 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

this  subject,  he  would  express  himself  thus: 
"These  fellows  talk  awful  skittles.  Any  plain 
man  knows  what's  too  hot  and  what  isn't.  All 
this  'flim-flam'  about  art,  and  all  that,  is  beside 
the  point.  The  question  simply  is:  Would  you 
take  your  wife  and  daughters?  If  not,  there's 
an  end  of  it,  and  it  ought  to  be  suppressed." 
And  he  would  think  of  his  own  daughters,  very 
nice,  and  would  feel  sure.  Not  that  he  did  not 
himself  like  a  "full-blooded"  book,  as  he  called 
it,  provided  it  had  the  right  moral  and  religious 
tone.  Indeed,  a  certain  kind  of  fiction  which 
abounded  in  descriptions  "of  her  lovely  bosom" 
often  struck  him  pink,  as  he  hesitated  to  express 
it;  but  there  was  never  in  such  masterpieces  of 
emotion  any  nasty  subversiveness,  or  wrong- 
headed  idealism,  but  frequently  the  opposite. 

Though  it  was  in  relation  to  literature  and 
drama,  perhaps,  that  his  quality  of  plainness 
was  most  valuable,  he  felt  the  importance  of  it, 
too,  in  regard  to  politics.  When  they  had  all 
done  "messing  about,"  he  knew  that  they  would 
come  to  him,  because,  after  all,  there  he  was,  a 
plain  man  wanting  nothing  but  his  plain  rights, 
not  in  the  least  concerned  with  the  future,  and 
Utopia,  and  all  that,  but  putting  things  to  the 
plain  touchstone:  "How  will  it  affect  me?"  and 

118 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

forming  his  plain  conclusions  one  way  or  the  other. 
He  felt,  above  all  things,  each  new  penny  of  the 
income-tax  before  they  put  it  on,  and  saw  to  it  if 
possible  that  they  did  not.  He  was  extraordinarily 
plain  about  that,  and  about  national  defence, 
which  instinct  told  him  should  be  kept  up  to  the 
mark  at  all  costs.  But  there  must  be  ways,  he 
felt,  of  doing  the  latter  without  having  recourse 
to  the  income-tax,  and  he  was  prepared  to  turn 
out  any  government  that  went  on  lines  unjust 
to  the  plainest  principles  of  property.  In  mat- 
ters of  national  honour  he  was  even  plainer,  for 
he  never  went  into  the  merits  of  the  question, 
knowing,  as  a  simple  patriot,  that  his  country 
must  be  right;  or  that,  if  not  right,  it  would 
never  do  to  say  she  wasn't.  So  aware  were  states- 
men and  the  press  of  this  sound  attitude  of  his 
mind,  that,  without  waiting  to  ascertain  it,  they 
acted  on  it  in  perfect  confidence. 

In  regard  to  social  reform,  while  recognising, 
of  course,  the  need  for  it,  he  felt  that,  in  prac- 
tice, one  should  do  just  as  much  as  was  abso- 
lutely necessary  and  no  more;  a  plain  man  did 
not  go  out  of  his  way  to  make  quixotic  efforts, 
but  neither  did  he  sit  upon  a  boiler  till  he  was 
blown  up. 

In  the  matter  of  religion  he  regarded  his  posi- 
119 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

tion  as  the  only  sound  one,  for  however  little  in 
these  days  one  could  believe  and  all  that,  yet,  as 
a  plain  man,  he  did  not  for  a  moment  refuse  to 
go  to  church  and  say  he  was  a  Christian;  on  the 
contrary,  he  was  rather  more  particular  about  it 
than  formerly,  since  when  a  spirit  has  departed, 
one  must  be  very  careful  of  the  body,  lest  it 
fall  to  pieces.  He  continued,  therefore,  to  be  a 
churchman — living  in  Hertfordshire. 

He  often  spoke  of  science,  medical  or  not,  and 
it  was  his  plain  opinion  that  these  fellows  all  had 
an  axe  to  grind;  for  his  part  he  only  believed  in 
them  just  in  so  far  as  they  benefited  a  plain  man. 
The  latest  sanitary  system,  the  best  forms  of  lo- 
comotion and  communication,  the  newest  anti- 
septics, and  time-saving  machines — of  all  these, 
of  course,  he  made  full  use;  but  as  to  the  re- 
searches, speculations,  and  theories  of  scientists 
— to  speak  plainly,  they  were,  he  thought,  "pretty 
good  rot." 

He  abominated  the  word  "humanitarian."  No 
plain  man  wanted  to  inflict  suffering,  especially 
on  himself.  He  would  be  the  last  person  to  do 
any  such  thing,  but  the  plain  facts  of  life  must  be 
considered,  and  convenience  and  property  duly 
safeguarded.  He  wrote  to  the  papers  perhaps 
more  often  on  this  subject  than  on  any  other, 

120 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

and  was  gratified  to  read  in  their  leading  articles 
continual  allusion  to  himself:  "The  plain  man  is 
not  prepared  to  run  the  risks  which  a  sentimental 
treatment  of  this  subject  would  undoubtedly  in- 
volve"; "After  all,  it  is  to  the  plain  man  that 
we  must  go  for  the  sanity  and  common  sense 
of  this  matter."  For  he  had  no  dread  in  life 
like  that  of  being  called  a  sentimentalist.  If  an 
instance  of  cruelty  came  under  his  own  eyes  he 
was  as  much  moved  as  any  man,  and  took  im- 
mediate steps  to  manifest  his  disapproval.  To 
act  thus  on  his  feelings  was  not  at  all  his  idea  of 
being  sentimental.  But  what  he  could  not  stand 
was  making  a  fuss  about  cruelties,  as  people  called 
them,  which  had  not  actually  come  under  his  own 
plain  vision;  to  be  indignant  in  regard  to  such 
was  sentimental,  he  was  sure,  involving  as  it  did 
an  exercise  of  imagination,  than  which  there  was 
nothing  he  distrusted  more.  Some  deep  instinct 
no  doubt  informed  him  perpetually  that  if  he 
felt  anything,  other  than  what  disturbed  him 
personally  at  first  hand,  he  would  suffer  unnec- 
essarily, and  perhaps  be  encouraging  such  public 
action  as  might  diminish  his  comfort.  But  he 
was  no  alarmist,  and,  on  the  whole,  felt  pretty 
sure  that  while  he  was  there,  living  in  Kent, 
with  his  plain  views,  there  was  no  chance  of  any- 

121 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

thing  being  done  that  would  cause  him  any  se- 
rious inconvenience. 

On  the  woman's  question  generally  he  had  long 
made  his  position  plain.  He  would  move  when 
the  majority  moved,  and  not  before.  And  he 
expected  all  plain  men  (and  women — if  there 
were  any,  which  he  sometimes  doubted)  to  act 
in  the  same  way.  In  this  policy  he  felt  instinc- 
tively, rather  than  consciously,  that  there  was 
no  risk.  No  one — at  least,  no  one  that  mattered, 
no  plain,  solid  person — would  move  until  he  did, 
and  he  would  not,  of  course,  move  until  they  did; 
in  this  way  there  was  a  perfectly  plain  position. 
And  it  was  an  extraordinary  gratification  to  him 
to  feel,  from  the  tone  of  politicians,  the  pulpit, 
and  the  press,  that  he  had  the  country  with 
him.  He  often  said  to  his  wife:  "One  thing's 
plain  to  me;  we  shall  never  have  the  suffrage  till 
the  country  wants  it."  But  he  rarely  discussed 
the  question  with  other  women,  having  observed 
that  many  of  them  could  not  keep  their  tempers 
when  he  gave  them  his  plain  view  of  the  matter. 

He  was  sometimes  at  a  loss  to  think  what  on 
earth  they  would  do  without  him  on  juries,  of 
which  he  was  usually  elected  foreman.  And  he 
never  failed  to  listen  with  pleasure  to  the  words 
that  never  failed  to  be  spoken  to  him:  "As  plain 

122 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

men,  gentlemen,  you  will  at  once  see  how  im- 
probable in  every  particular  is  the  argument  of 
my  friend."  That  he  was  valued  in  precisely  the 
same  way  by  both  sides  and  ultimately  by  the 
judge  filled  him  sometimes  with  a  modest  feeling 
that  only  a  plain  man  was  of  any  value  what- 
ever, certainly  that  he  was  the  only  kind  of  man 
who  had  any  sort  of  judgment. 

He  often  wondered  what  the  country  would  do 
without  him;  into  what  abysmal  trouble  she 
would  get  in  her  politics,  her  art,  her  law,  and 
her  religion.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  alone 
stood  between  her  and  manifold  destructions. 
How  many  times  had  he  not  seen  her  reeling  in 
her  cups  and  sophistries,  and  beckoning  to  him 
to  save  her!  And  had  he  ever  failed  her,  with 
his  simple  philosophy  of  a  plain  man:  "Follow 
me,  and  the  rest  will  follow  itself"?  Never! 
As  witness  the  veneration  in  which  he  saw  that 
he  was  held  every  time  he  opened  a  paper,  at- 
tended the  performance  of  a  play,  heard  a  ser- 
mon, or  listened  to  a  speech.  Some  day  he  meant 
to  sit  for  his  portrait,  believing  that  this  was  due 
from  him  to  posterity;  and  now  and  then  he 
would  look  into  the  glass  to  fortify  his  resolu- 
tion. What  he  saw  there  always  gave  him  se- 
cret pleasure.  Here  was  a  face  that  he  knew  he 

123 


THE  PLAIN  MAN 

could  trust,  and  even  in  a  way  admire.  Nothing 
brilliant,  showy,  eccentric,  soulful;  nothing  rug- 
ged, devotional,  profound,  or  fiery;  not  even 
anything  proud,  or  stubborn;  no  surplus  of 
kindliness,  sympathy,  or  aspiration;  but  just 
simple,  solid  lines,  a  fresh  colour,  and  sensible, 
rather  prominent  eyes — just  the  face  that  he 
would  have  expected  and  desired,  the  face  of  a 
plain  man. 


124 


IV.    THE  SUPERLATIVE 

Though  he  had  not  yet  arrived,  he  had  per- 
sonally no  doubt  about  the  matter.  It  was  merely 
a  question  of  time.  Not  that  for  one  moment  he 
approved  of  "arriving"  as  a  general  principle. 
Indeed,  there  was  no  one  whom  he  held  in  greater 
contempt  than  a  man  who  had  arrived.  It  was 
to  him  the  high-water  mark  of  imbecility,  com- 
mercialism, and  complacency.  For  what  did  it 
mean  save  that  this  individual  had  pleased  a 
sufficient  number  of  other  imbeciles,  hucksterers, 
and  fatheads,  to  have  secured  for  himself  a  rep- 
utation? These  pundits,  these  mandarins,  these 
so-called  "masters" — they  were  an  offence  to  his 
common  sense.  He  had  passed  them  by,  with  all 
their  musty  and  sham-Abraham  achievements. 
That  fine  flair  of  his  had  found  them  out.  Their 
mere  existence  was  a  scandal.  Now  and  again 
one  died;  and  his  just  anger  would  wane  a  little 
before  the  touch  of  the  Great  Remover.  No 
longer  did  that  pundit  seem  quite  so  objection- 
able now  that  he  no  longer  cumbered  the  ground. 

125 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

It  might  even,  perhaps,  be  admitted  that  there 
had  been  something  coming  out  of  that  one;  and, 
as  the  years  rolled  on,  this  something  would  roll 
on  too,  till  it  became  quite  a  big  thing;  and  he 
would  compare  those  miserable  pundits  who  still 
lived  with  the  one  who  had  so  fortunately  died, 
to  then*  great  disadvantage.  There  were,  in 
truth,  very  few  living  beings  that  he  could  stand. 
Somehow  they  were  not — no,  they  really  were 
not.  The  great — as  they  were  called  forsooth — 
artists,  writers,  politicians — what  were  they? 
He  would  smile  down  one  side  of  his  long  nose. 
It  was  enough.  Forthwith  those  reputations 
ceased  to  breathe — for  him.  Their  theories,  too, 
of  art,  reform,  what-not — how  puerile!  How 
utterly  and  hopelessly  old-fashioned,  how  worthy 
of  all  the  destruction  that  his  pen  and  tongue 
could  lavish  on  them! 

For,  to  save  his  country's  art,  his  country's 
literature  and  politics — that  was,  he  well  knew, 
his  mission.  And  he  periodically  founded,  or 
joined,  the  staff  of  papers  that  were  going  to  do 
this  trick.  They  always  lasted  several  months, 
some  several  years,  before  breathing  the  last  im- 
patient sigh  of  genius.  And  while  they  lived, 
with  what  wonderful  clean  brooms  they  swept! 
Perched  above  all  that  miasma  known  as  human 

126 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

nature,  they  beat  the  air,  sweeping  it  and  sweep- 
ing it,  till  suddenly  there  was  no  air  left.  And 
that  theory,  that  real  vision  of  art  and  existence, 
which  they  were  going  to  put  in  place  of  all  this 
muck,  how  near — how  unimaginably  near — they 
brought  it  to  reality!  Just  another  month,  an- 
other year,  another  good  sweeping,  would  have 
done  it!  And  on  that  final  ride  of  the  broom- 
stick, he — he  would  have  arrived !  At  last  some 
one  would  have  been  there  with  a  real  philosophy, 
a  truly  creative  mind;  some  one  whose  poems  and 
paintings,  music,  novels,  plays,  and  measures  of 
reform  would  at  last  have  borne  inspection! 
And  he  would  go  out  from  the  office  of  that 
great  paper  so  untimely  wrecked,  and,  conspiring 
with  himself,  would  found  another. 

This  one  should  follow  principles  that  could  not 
fail.  For,  first,  it  should  tolerate  nothing — noth- 
ing at  all.  That  was  the  mistake  they  had  made 
last  time.  They  had  tolerated  some  reputations. 
No  more  of  that;  no — more!  The  imbeciles,  the 
shallow  frauds,  let  them  be  carted  once  for  all. 
And  with  them  let  there  be  cremated  the  whole 
structure  of  society,  all  its  worn-out  formulas  of 
art,  religion,  sociology.  In  place  of  them  he 
would  not  this  time  be  content  to  put  nothing. 
No;  it  was  the  moment  to  elucidate  and  develop 

127 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

that  secret  rhyme  and  pulsation  in  the  heart  of 
the  future  hitherto  undisclosed  to  any  but  him- 
self. And  all  the  time  there  should  be  flames 
going  up  out  of  that  paper — the  pale-red,  the 
lovely  flames  of  genius.  Yes,  the  emanation 
should  be  wonderful.  And,  collecting  his  tattered 
mantle  round  his  middle  so  small,  he  would  start 
his  race  again. 

For  three  numbers  he  would  lay  about  him 
and  outline  religiously  what  was  going  to  come. 
In  the  fourth  number  he  would  be  compelled  to 
concentrate  himself  on  a  final  destruction  of  all 
those  defences  and  spiteful  counter-attacks  which 
wounded  vanity  had  wrung  from  the  pundits, 
those  apostles  of  the  past;  this  final  destruction 
absorbed  his  energies  during  the  fifth,  sixth,  sev- 
enth, and  eighth  numbers.  In  the  ninth  he  would 
say  positively  that  he  was  now  ready  to  justify 
the  constructive  prophecies  of  his  first  issues.  In 
the  tenth  he  would  explain  that,  unless  a  blighted 
public  supported  an  heroic  effort  better,  genius 
would  be  withheld  from  them.  In  the  eleventh 
number  he  would  lay  about  him  as  he  had  never 
done,  and  in  the  twelfth  give  up  the  ghost. 

In  connection  with  him  one  had  always  to  re- 
member that  he  was  not  one  of  those  complacent 
folk  whose  complacency  stops  short  somewhere; 

128 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

his  was  a  nobler  kind,  ever  trying  to  climb  into 
that  heaven  which  he  alone  was  going  to  reach 
some  day.  He  had  a  touch  of  the  divine  discon- 
tent even  with  himself;  and  it  was  only  in  com- 
parison with  the  rest  of  the  world  that  he  felt  he 
was  superlative. 

It  was  a  consolation  to  him  that  Nietzsche  was 
dead,  so  that  out  of  a  full  heart  and  empty  con- 
science he  could  bang  upon  the  abandoned  drum 
of  a  man  whom  he  scarcely  hesitated  to  term 
great.  And  yet,  what — as  he  often  said — could 
be  more  dismally  asinine  than  to  see  some  of 
these  live  stucco  moderns  pretending  to  be  super- 
men? Save  this  Nietzsche  he  admitted  perhaps 
no  philosopher  into  his  own  class,  and  was  most 
down  on  Aristotle,  and  that  one  who  had  founded 
the  religion  of  his  country. 

Of  statesmen  he  held  a  low  opinion — what  were 
they,  after  all,  but  politicians?  There  was  not 
one  in  the  whole  range  of  history  who  could  take 
a  view  like  an  angel  of  the  dawn  surveying  crea- 
tion; not  one  who  could  soar  above  a  contempt- 
ible adaptation  of  human  means  to  human  ends. 

His  poet  was  Blake.  His  playwright  Strind- 
berg,  a  man  of  distinct  promise — fortunately  dead. 
Of  novelists  he  accepted  Dostoievsky.  Who  else 
was  there?  Who  else  that  had  gone  outside  the 

129 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

range  of  normal,  stupid,  rational  humanity,  and 
shown  the  marvellous  qualities  of  the  human 
creature  drunk  or  dreaming?  Who  else  who  had 
so  arranged  his  scenery  that  from  beginning  to 
end  one  need  never  witness  the  dull  shapes  and 
colours  of  human  life  quite  unracked  by  night- 
mare ?  It  was  in  nightmare  only  that  the  human 
spirit  revealed  its  possibilities. 

In  truth,  he  had  a  great  respect  for  nightmare, 
even  in  its  milder  forms,  the  respect  of  one  who 
felt  that  it  was  the  only  thing  which  an  ordinary 
sane  man  could  not  achieve  in  his  waking  mo- 
ments. He  so  hated  the  ordinary  sane  man, 
with  his  extraordinary  lack  of  the  appreciative 
faculty. 

In  his  artistic  tastes  he  was  paulo-post-futur- 
ist,  and  the  painter  he  had  elected  to  admire  was 
one  that  no  one  had  yet  heard  of.  He  meant, 
however,  that  they  should  hear  of  him  when  the 
moment  came.  With  the  arrival  of  that  one 
would  begin  a  new  era  of  art,  for  which  in  the 
past  there  would  be  no  parallel,  save  possibly 
one  Chinese  period  long  before  that  of  which  the 
pundits — poor  devils — so  blatantly  bleated. 

He  was  a  connoisseur  of  music,  and  nothing 
gave  him  greater  pain  than  a  tune.  Of  all  the 
ancients  he  recognised  Bach  alone,  and  only  in 

130 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

his  fugues.  Wagner  was  considerable  in  places. 
Strauss  and  Debussy,  well — yes,  but  now  vieux 
jeu.  There  was  an  Esquimaux.  His  name  ?  No, 
let  them  wait !  That  fellow  was  something.  Let 
them  mark  his  words,  and  wait ! 

It  was  for  this  kind  of  enlightenment  of  the 
world  that  he  most  ardently  desired  his  own  ar- 
rival, without  which  he  sometimes  thought  he 
could  no  longer  bear  things  as  they  were,  no 
longer  go  on  watching  his  chariot  unhitched  to  a 
star,  trailing  the  mud  of  this  musty,  muddled 
world,  whose  ethics  even,  those  paltry  wrappings 
of  the  human  soul,  were  uncongenial  to  him. 

Talking  of  ethics,  there  was  one  thing  especially 
that  he  absolutely  could  not  bear — that  second- 
hand creature,  a  gentleman;  the  notion  that  his 
own  superlative  self  should  be  compelled  by  some 
mouldy  and  incomprehensible  tradition  to  respect 
the  feelings  or  see  the  point  of  view  of  others — 
this  was  indeed  the  limit.  No,  no!  To  bound 
upon  the  heads  and  limbs  the  prejudices  and  con- 
victions of  those  he  came  in  contact  with,  espe- 
cially in  print,  that  was  a  holy  duty.  And,  though 
conscientious  to  a  degree,  there  was  certainly  no 
one  of  all  his  duties  that  he  performed  so  con- 
scientiously as  this.  No  amenities  defiled  his 
tongue  or  pen,  nor  did  he  ever  shrink  from  per- 

131 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

sonalities — his  spiritual  honesty  was  terrific.  But 
he  never  thrust  or  cut  where  it  was  not  deserved; 
practically  the  whole  world  was  open  to  his  scorn, 
as  he  well  knew,  and  he  never  needed  to  go  out 
of  his  way  to  find  victims  for  it.  Indeed,  he  made 
no  cult  at  all  of  eccentricity — that  was  for  smaller 
creatures.  His  dress,  for  instance,  was  of  the  so- 
berest, save  that  now  and  then  he  would  wear 
a  purple  shirt,  grey  boots,  or  a  yellow-ochre  tie. 
His  life  and  habits,  lost  in  the  future,  were,  on 
the  whole,  abstemious.  He  had  no  children,  but 
set  great  store  by  them,  and  fully  meant  when 
he  had  time  to  have  quite  a  number,  for  this 
was,  he  knew,  his  duty  to  a  world  breeding  from 
mortal  men.  Whether  they  would  arrive  before 
he  did  was  a  question,  since,  until  then,  his  crea- 
tive attention  could  hardly  be  sufficiently  dis- 
engaged. 

At  tunes  he  scarcely  knew  himself,  so  absorbed 
was  he;  but  you  knew  him  because  he  breathed 
rather  hard,  as  became  a  man  lost  in  creation. 
In  the  higher  flights  of  his  genius  he  paused  for 
nothing,  not  even  for  pen  and  paper;  he  touched 
the  clouds,  indeed — and,  like  the  clouds,  height 
piled  on  vaporous  height,  his  images  and  concep- 
tions hung  wreathed,  immortal,  evanescent  as  the 
very  air.  It  was  an  annoyance  to  him  afterward 

132 


THE  SUPERLATIVE 

to  find  that  he  had  neglected  to  pin  them  to  earth. 
Still,  with  his  intolerance  of  all  except  divinity, 
and  his  complete  faith  that  he  must  in  time  achieve 
it,  he  was  perhaps  the  most  interesting  person  to 
be  found  in  the  purlieus  of — wherever  it  might  be. 


133 


V.    THE  PRECEPTOR 

He  had  a  philosophy  as  yet  untouched.  His 
stars  were  the  old  stars,  his  faith  the  old  faith; 
nor  would  he  recognise  that  there  was  any  other, 
for  not  to  recognise  any  point  of  view  except 
his  own  was  no  doubt  the  very  essence  of  his 
faith.  Wisdom !  There  was  surely  none  save  the 
flinging  of  the  door  to,  standing  with  your  back 
against  that  door,  and  telling  people  what  was 
behind  it.  For,  though  he  also  could  not  know 
what  was  behind,  he  thought  it  low  to  say  so. 
An  "atheist,"  as  he  termed  certain  persons,  was 
to  him  beneath  contempt,  an  "agnostic,"  as  he 
termed  certain  others,  a  poor  and  foolish  creature. 
As  for  a  rationalist,  positivist,  pragmatist,  or  any 
other  "ist" — well,  that  was  just  what  they  were. 
He  made  no  secret  of  the  fact  that  he  simply 
could  not  understand  people  like  that.  It  was 
true.  "What  can  they  do — save  deny?"  he 
would  say.  "What  do  they  contribute  to  the 
morals  and  the  elevation  of  the  world?  What 
do  they  put  in  place  of  what  they  take  away? 
What  have  they  got,  to  make  up  for  what  is  be- 

134 


THE  PRECEPTOR 

hind  that  door  ?  Where  are  their  symbols  ?  How 
shall  they  move  and  lead  the  people?  No/'  he 
said,  "a  little  child  shall  lead  the  people,  and  I 
am  the  little  child !  For  I  can  spin  them  a  tale 
such  as  children  love,  of  what  is  behind  the  door." 
Such  was  the  temper  of  his  mind  that  he  never 
flinched  from  believing  true  what  he  thought 
would  benefit  himself  and  others.  For  example, 
he  held  a  crown  of  ultimate  advantage  to  be  nec- 
essary to  induce  pure  and  stable  living.  If  one 
could  not  say:  "Listen,  children!  there  it  is,  be- 
hind the  door!  Look  at  it,  shining,  golden — 
yours!  Not  now,  but  when  you  die,  if  you  are 
good.  Be  good,  therefore!  For  if  you  are  not 
good — no  crown!"  If  one  could  not  say  that — 
what  could  one  say?  What  inducement  hold 
out  ?  And  warmly  he  would  describe  the  crown ! 
There  was  nothing  he  detested  more  than  com- 
mercialism. And  to  any  one  who  ventured  to 
suggest  that  there  was  something  rather  com- 
mercial about  the  idea  of  that  crown,  he  would 
retort  with  asperity.  A  mere  creed  that  good 
must  be  done,  so  to  speak,  just  out  of  a  present 
love  of  dignity  and  beauty — as  a  man,  seeing 
something  he  admired,  might  work  to  reproduce 
it,  knowing  that  he  would  never  achieve  it  per- 
fectly, but  going  on  until  he  dropped,  out  of  sheer 

135 


love  of  going  on — he  thought  vague,  futile,  devoid 
of  glamour,  and  contrary  to  human  nature,  for 
he  always  judged  people  by  himself,  and  felt  that 
no  one  could  like  to  go  on  unless  they  knew  that 
they  would  get  something  if  they  did.  To  prom- 
ise victory,  therefore,  was  most  important.  For- 
lorn hopes,  setting  your  teeth,  back  to  the  wall, 
and  such  like,  was  bleak  and  wintry  doctrine, 
without  inspiration  in  it,  because  it  led  to  noth- 
ing— so  far  as  he  could  see.  Those  others,  who, 
not  presuming  to  believe  in  anything,  went  on, 
because — as  they  said — to  give  up  would  be  to 
lose  their  honour,  seemed  to  him  poor  lost  crea- 
tures who  had  denied  faith;  and  faith  was,  as 
has  been  said,  the  mainspring  of  his  philosophy. 
Once,  indeed,  in  the  unguarded  moment  of  a 
heated  argument,  he  had  confessed  that  some  day 
men  might  not  require  to  use  the  symbols  of 
religion  which  they  used  now.  It  was  at  once 
pointed  out  to  him  that,  if  he  thought  that,  he 
could  not  believe  these  symbols  to  be  true  for 
all  time;  and  if  they  were  not  true  for  all  time, 
why  did  he  say  they  were?  He  was  dreadfully 
upset.  Deferring  answer,  however,  for  the  mo- 
ment, he  was  soon  able  to  retort  that  the  sym- 
bols were  true — er — mystically.  If  a  man — and 
this  was  the  point — did  not  stand  by  these  sym- 

136 


THE  PRECEPTOR 

bols,  by  which  could  he  stand  ?  Tell  him  that ! 
Symbols  were  necessary.  But  what  symbols  were 
there  in  a  mere  good  will;  a  mere  vague  follow- 
ing of  one's  own  dignity  and  honour,  out  of  a 
formless  love  of  life?  How  put  up  a  religion  of 
such  amorphous  and  unrewarded  chivalry  and 
devotion,  how  put  up  a  blind  love  of  mystery,  in 
place  of  a  religion  of  definite  crowns  and  punish- 
ments, how  substitute  a  worship  of  mere  abstract 
goodness,  or  beauty,  for  worship  of  what  could  be 
called  by  Christian  names  ?  Human  nature  being 
what  it  was — it  would  not  do,  it  absolutely  would 
not  do.  Though  he  was  fond  of  the  words  "mys- 
tery," "mystical,"  he  had  emphatically  no  use 
for  them  when  they  were  vaguely  used  by  people 
to  express  their  perpetual  (and  quite  unmoral)  rev- 
erence for  the  feeling  that  they  would  never  find 
out  the  secret  of  their  own  existence,  never  even 
understand  the  nature  of  the  universe  or  God. 
Fancy!  Mystery  of  that  kind  seemed  to  him 
pagan,  almost  nature-worship,  having  no  finality. 
And  if  confronted  by  some  one  who  said  that  a 
Mystery,  if  it  could  be  understood,  would  natu- 
rally not  be  a  mystery,  he  would  raise  his  eye- 
brows. It  was  that  kind  of  loose,  specious,  senti- 
mental talk  that  did  so  much  harm,  and  drew 
people  away  from  right  understanding  of  that 

137 


Great  Mystery  which,  if  it  was  not  understood 
and  properly  explained,  was,  for  all  practical  pur- 
poses, not  a  great  mystery  at  all.  No,  it  had 
all  been  gone  into  long  ago,  and  he  stood  by  the 
explanations  and  intended  that  every  one  else 
should,  for  in  that  way  alone  men  were  saved; 
and,  though  he  well  knew  (for  he  was  no  Jesuit) 
that  the  end  did  not  justify  the  means,  yet  in  a 
matter  of  such  all-importance  one  stopped  to  con- 
sider neither  means  nor  ends — one  just  saved 
people.  And  as  for  truth — the  question  of  that 
did  not  arise,  if  one  believed.  What  one  believed, 
what  one  was  told  to  believe,  was  the  truth;  and 
it  was  no  good  telling  him  that  the  whole  range 
of  a  man's  feeling  and  reasoning  powers  must  be 
exercised  to  ascertain  truth,  and  that,  when  as- 
certained, it  would  only  be  relative  truth,  and 
the  best  available  to  that  particular  man.  Noth- 
ing short  of  the  absolute  truth  would  he  put  up 
with,  and  that  guaranteed  fixed  and  immovable, 
or  it  was  no  good  for  his  purpose.  To  any  one 
who  threw  out  doubts  here  and  doubts  there,  and 
even  worse  than  doubts,  he  had  long  formed  the 
habit  of  saying  simply,  with  a  smile  that  he  tried 
hard  to  make  indulgent:  "Of  course,  if  you  be- 
lieve that!" 

But  he  very  seldom  had  to  argue  on  these 
138 


THE  PRECEPTOR 

matters,  because  people,  looking  at  his  face  with 
its  upright  bone-formation,  rather  bushy  eye- 
brows, and  eyes  with  a  good  deal  of  light  in  them, 
felt  that  it  would  be  simpler  not.  He  seemed  to 
them  to  know  his  own  mind  almost  too  well. 
Joined  to  this  potent  faculty  of  implanting  in  men 
a  childlike  trustfulness  in  what  he  told  them  was 
behind  the  door,  he  had  a  still  more  potent  faculty 
of  knowing  exactly  what  was  good  for  them  in 
everyday  life.  The  secret  of  this  power  was  sim- 
ple. He  did  not  recognise  the  existence  of  what 
modems  and  so-called  "artists"  dubbed  "tem- 
perament." All  talk  of  that  sort  was  bosh,  and 
generally  immoral  bosh;  for  all  moral  purposes 
people  really  had  but  one  temperament,  and  that 
was,  of  course,  just  like  his  own.  And  no  one 
knew  better  than  he  what  was  good  for  it.  He 
was  perfectly  willing  to  recognise  the  principle  of 
individual  treatment  for  individual  cases;  but  it 
did  not  do,  in  practice,  he  was  convinced,  to 
vary.  This  instinctive  wisdom  made  him  inval- 
uable in  all  those  departments  of  life  where  dis- 
cipline and  the  dispensation  of  an  even  justice 
were  important.  To  adapt  men  to  the  moral 
law  was — he  thought — perhaps  the  first  duty  of 
a  preceptor,  especially  in  days  when  there  was 
perceptible  a  distinct  but  regrettable  tendency 

139 


THE  PRECEPTOR 

to  try  and  adapt  the  moral  law  to  the  needs — 
as  they  were  glibly  called — of  men.  There  was, 
perhaps,  in  him  something  of  the  pedagogue,  and 
when  he  met  a  person  who  disagreed  with  him 
his  eyes  would  shift  a  bit  to  the  right  and  a  bit 
to  the  left,  then  become  firmly  fixed  upon  that 
person  from  under  brows  rather  drawn  down; 
and  his  hand,  large  and  strong,  would  move  fin- 
gers, as  if  more  and  more  tightly  grasping  a  cane, 
birch,  or  other  wholesome  instrument.  He  loved 
his  fellow  creatures  so  that  he  could  not  bear  to 
see  them  going  to  destruction  for  want  of  a 
timely  flogging  to  salvation. 

He  was  one  of  those  who  seldom  felt  the  need 
for  personal  experience  of  a  phase  of  life,  or  line 
of  conduct,  before  giving  judgment  on  it;  indeed, 
he  gravely  distrusted  personal  experience.  He 
had  opposed,  for  instance,  all  relief  for  the  un- 
happily married  long  before  he  left  the  single 
state;  and,  when  he  did  leave  it,  would  not  admit 
for  a  moment  that  his  own  happiness  was  at  all 
responsible  for  the  petrifaction  of  his  view  that 
no  relief  was  necessary.  Hard  cases  made  bad 
law !  But  he  did  not  require  to  base  his  opinion 
upon  that.  He  said  simply  that  he  had  been 
told  there  was  to  be  no  relief — it  was  enough. 

The  saying  "To  understand  all  is  to  forgive 
140 


THE  PRECEPTOR 

all!"  left  him  cold.  It  was,  as  he  well  knew, 
quite  impossible  to  identify  himself  with  such 
conditions  as  produced  poverty,  disease,  and 
crime,  even  if  he  wished  to  do  so  (which  he  some- 
times doubted).  He  knew  better,  therefore,  than 
to  waste  his  time  attempting  the  impossible;  and 
he  pinned  his  faith  to  an  instinctive  knowledge 
of  how  to  deal  with  all  such  social  ills:  A  con- 
tented spirit  for  poverty;  for  disease  isolation; 
and  for  crime  such  punishment  as  would  at  once 
deter  others,  reform  the  criminal,  and  convince 
every  one  that  law  must  be  avenged  and  the 
social  conscience  appeased.  On  this  point  of 
revenge  he  was  emphatic.  No  vulgar  personal 
feeling  of  vindictiveness,  of  course,  but  a  strong 
state  feeling  of  "an  eye  for  an  eye."  It  was  the 
only  taint  of  socialism  that  he  permitted  himself. 
Loose  thinkers,  he  knew,  dared  to  say  that  a  desire 
for  retribution  or  revenge  was  a  purely  human 
or  individual  feeling  like  hate,  love,  and  jealousy; 
and  that  to  talk  of  satisfying  such  a  feeling  in 
the  collected  bosom  of  the  state  was  either  to 
talk  nonsense — how  could  a  state  have  a  bosom  ? 
— or  to  cause  the  bosoms  of  the  human  individ- 
uals who  administered  the  justice  of  the  state  to 
feel  that  each  of  them  was  itself  that  stately 
bosom,  and  entitled  to  be  revengeful.  U0h,  no !" 

141 


THE  PRECEPTOR 

he  would  answer  to  such  loose-thinking  persons; 
"judges,  of  course,  give  expression  not  to  what 
they  feel  themselves  but  to  what  they  imagine 
the  state  feels."  He  himself,  for  example,  was 
perfectly  able  to  imagine  which  crimes  were  those 
that  inspired  in  the  bosom  of  the  state  a  particu- 
lar abhorrence,  a  particular  desire  to  be  avenged; 
now  it  was  blackmail,  now  assaults  upon  chil- 
dren, or  living  on  the  earnings  of  immoral  women; 
he  was  certain  that  the  state  regarded  all  these 
with  peculiar  detestation,  for  he  had,  and  quite 
rightly,  a  particular  detestation  of  them  himself; 
and  if  he  were  a  judge,  he  would  never  for  a 
moment  hesitate  to  visit  on  the  perpetrators  of 
such  vile  crimes  the  utmost  vengeance  of  the  law. 
He  was  no  loose  thinker.  In  these  times,  bedrid- 
den with  loose  thinking  and  sickly  sentiment,  he 
often  felt  terribly  the  value  of  his  own  philosophy, 
and  was  afraid  that  it  was  in  danger.  But  not 
many  other  people  held  that  view,  discerning  his 
finger  still  very  large  in  every  pie — so  much  so 
that  there  often  seemed  less  pie  than  finger. 

It  would  have  shocked  him  much  to  realise 
that  he  could  be  considered  a  fit  subject  for  a 
study  of  extravagance;  fortunately,  he  had  not  the 
power  of  seeing  himself  as  others  saw  him,  nor 
was  there  any  danger  that  he  ever  would. 

142 


VI.    THE  ARTIST 

He  had  long  known,  of  course,  that  to  say  the 
word  "bourgeois"  with  contempt  was  a  little  bit 
old-fashioned,  and  he  did  his  utmost  not  to;  yet 
was  there  a  still  small  voice  within  him  that 
would  whisper:  "Those  people — I  want  to  and  I 
do  treat  them  as  my  equals.  I  have  even  gone 
so  far  of  late  years  as  to  dress  like  them,  to  play 
then-  games,  to  eat  regularly,  to  drink  little,  to 
love  decorously,  with  many  other  bourgeois  vir- 
tues, but  in  spite  of  all  I  remain  where  I  was,  an 
inhabitant  of  another — "  and,  just  as  he  thought 
the  whispering  voice  was  going  to  die  away,  it 
would  add  hurriedly — "and  a  better  world." 

It  worried  him;  and  he  would  diligently  exam- 
ine the  premises  of  that  small  secret  conclusion, 
hoping  to  find  a  flaw  in  the  justness  of  his  con- 
viction that  he  was  superior.  But  he  never  did; 
and  for  a  long  time  he  could  not  discover  why. 

Often  the  conduct  of  the  "bourgeois"  would 
strike  him  as  almost  superfluously  good.  They 
were  brave,  much  braver  than  he  was  conscious 

143 


THE  ARTIST 

of  being;  clean-thinking,  oh,  far  more  clean- 
thinking  than  a  man  like  himself,  necessarily  given 
to  visions  of  all  kinds;  they  were  straightfor- 
ward, almost  ridiculously  so,  as  it  seemed  to  one 
who  saw  the  inside-out  of  everything  almost  be- 
fore he  saw  the  outside-out;  they  were  simple,  as 
touchingly  simple  as  those  little  children,  to  whom 
Scriptures  and  post-impressionism  had  combined 
to  award  the  crown  of  wisdom;  they  were  kind 
and  self-denying  in  a  way  that  often  made  him 
feel  quite  desperately  his  own  selfishness — and 
yet — they  were  inferior.  It  was  simply  madden- 
ing that  he  could  never  rid  himself  of  that  im- 
pression. 

It  was  one  November  afternoon,  while  talking 
with  another  artist,  that  the  simple  reason  struck 
him  with  extraordinary  force  and  clarity:  He 
could  make  them,  and  they  could  not  make  him ! 

It  was  clearly  this  which  caused  him  to  feel 
so  much  like  God  when  they  were  about.  Glad 
enough,  as  any  man  might  be,  of  that  discovery, 
it  did  not  set  his  mind  at  rest.  He  felt  that  he 
ought  rather  to  be  humbled  than  elated.  And 
he  went  to  work  at  once  to  be  so,  saying  to  him- 
self: "I  am  just,  perhaps,  a  little  nearer  to  the 
Creative  Purpose  than  the  rest  of  the  world — a 
mere  accident,  nothing  to  be  proud  of;  I  can't 

144 


THE  ARTIST 

help  it,  nothing  to  make  a  fuss  about,  though 
people  will !"  For  it  did  seem  to  him  sometimes 
that  the  whole  world  was  in  conspiracy  to  make 
him  feel  superior — as  if  there  were  any  need! 
He  would  have  felt  much  more  comfortable  if 
that  world  had  despised  him,  as  it  used  to  in  the 
old  days,  for  then  the  fire  of  his  conviction  could 
with  so  much  better  grace  have  flared  to  heaven; 
there  would  have  been  something  fine  about  a 
superiority  leading  its  own  forlorn  hope.  But 
this  trailing  behind  the  drums  and  trumpets  of  a 
press  and  public  so  easily  taken  in  he  felt  to  be 
both  flat  and  a  little  degrading.  True,  he  had 
his  moments,  as  when  his  eyes  would  light  on 
sentences  like  this  (penned  generally  by  clergy- 
men): "All  this  talk  of  art  is  idle;  what  really 
matters  is  morals."  Then,  indeed,  his  spirit 
would  flame,  and  after  gazing  at  "is  morals" 
with  flashing  eye  and  curling  lip,  and  wondering 
whether  it  ought  to  have  been  "are  morals,"  he 
would  say  to  whomsoever  might  happen  to  be 
there:  "These  bourgeois!  What  do  they  know? 
What  can  they  see?"  and,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer,  would  reply:  "Nothing!  Nothing!  Less 
than  nothing !"  and  mean  it.  It  was  at  moments 
such  as  these  that  he  realised  how  he  not  only 
despised,  but  almost  hated,  those  dense  and  cocky 

145 


THE  ARTIST 

Philistines  who  could  not  see  his  obvious  supe- 
riority. He  felt  that  he  did  not  lightly  call  them 
by  such  names,  because  they  really  were  dense 
and  cocky,  and  no  more  able  to  see  things  from 
his  point  of  view  than  they  were  to  jump  over 
the  moon.  These  fellows  could  see  nothing  except 
from  their  own  confounded  view-point!  They 
were  so  stodgy  too;  and  he  gravely  distrusted 
anything  static.  Flux,  flux,  and  once  more  flux ! 
He  knew  by  intuition  that  an  artist  alone  had  the 
capacity  for  concreting  the  tides  of  life  in  forms 
that  were  not  deleterious  to  anybody.  For  rules 
and  canons  he  recognised  the  necessity  with  his 
head  (including  his  tongue),  but  never  with  his 
heart;  except,  of  course,  the  rules  and  canons  of 
art.  He  worshipped  these;  and  when  anybody 
like  Tolstoi  came  along  and  said,  "Blow  art!" 
or  words  to  that  effect,  he  hummed  like  bees 
caught  on  a  gust  of  wind.  What  did  it  matter 
whether  you  had  anything  to  express,  so  long  as 
you  expressed  it?  That  only  was  "pure  aesthet- 
ics," as  he  often  said.  To  place  before  the  pub- 
lic eye  something  so  exquisitely  purged  of  thick 
and  muddy  actuality  that  it  might  be  as  per- 
fectly without  direct  appeal  to-day  as  it  would 
be  two  thousand  years  hence — this  was  an  ambi- 
tion to  which  in  truth  he  nearly  always  attained; 

146 


THE  ARTIST 

this  only  was  great  art.  He  would  assert  with 
his  last  breath — which  was  rather  short,  for  he 
suffered  from  indigestion — that  one  must  never 
concrete  anything  in  terms  of  ordinary  nature. 
No !  one  must  devise  pictures  of  life  that  would 
be  equally  unfamiliar  to  men  in  A.  D.  2520  as 
they  had  been  in  A.  D.  1920;  and  when  an  in- 
considerate person  drew  his  attention  to  the  fact 
that  to  the  spectator  in  2520  the  most  natural- 
istic pictures  of  the  life  of  1920  would  seem  quite 
convincingly  fantastic,  so  that  there  was  no  need 
for  him  to  go  out  of  his  way  to  devise  fantasy — 
he  would  stare.  For  he  was  emphatically  not 
one  of  those  who  did  not  care  a  button  what  the 
form  was  so  long  as  the  spirit  of  the  artist  shone 
clear  and  potent  through  the  pictures  he  drew. 
No,  no;  he  either  demanded  the  poetical,  the 
thing  that  got  off  the  ground,  with  the  wind  in 
its  hair  (and  he  himself  would  make  the  wind, 
rather  perfumed) ;  or — if  not  the  poetical — some- 
thing observed  with  extreme  fidelity  and  with- 
out the  smallest  touch  of  that  true  danger  to 
art,  the  temperamental  point  of  view.  "No!" 
he  would  say;  "it's  our  business  to  put  it  down 
just  as  it  is,  to  see  it,  not  to  feel  it.  In  feeling 
damnation  lies."  And  nothing  gave  him  greater 
uneasiness  than  to  find  the  emotions  of  anger, 

147 


THE  ARTIST 

scorn,  love,  reverence,  or  pity  surging  within  him 
as  he  worked,  for  he  knew  that  they  would,  if 
he  did  not  at  once  master  them,  spoil  a  certain 
splendid  vacuity  that  he  demanded  of  all  art. 
In  painting,  Raphael,  Tintoretto,  and  Holbein 
pleased  him  greatly;  in  fiction,  "Salammb6" 
was  his  model,  for,  as  he  very  justly  said,  you 
could  supply  to  it  what  soul  you  liked — there 
being  no  inconvenient  soul  already  in  possession. 

As  can  be  well  imagined,  his  conviction  of  being, 
in  a  small  way,  God,  permeated  an  outlook  that 
was  passionless  and  impartial  to  a  degree — ex- 
cept perhaps  toward  the  bourgeoisie,  with  their 
tiring  morals  and  peculiar  habits.  If  he  had  a 
weakness,  it  was  his  paramount  desire  to  suppress 
in  himself  any  symptoms  of  temperament,  except 
just  that  temperament  of  having  no  tempera- 
ment, which  seemed  to  him  the  only  one  permis- 
sible to  an  artist,  who,  as  he  said,  was  nothing 
if  not  simply  either  a  recorder  or  a  weaver  of 
beautiful  lines  in  the  air. 

Record  and  design,  statement  and  decoration — 
these,  in  combination,  constituted  creation!  It 
was  to  him  a  certain  source  of  pleasure  that  he 
had  discovered  this.  Not  that  he  was,  of  course, 
neglectful  of  sensations,  but  he  was  perfectly  care- 
ful not  to  feel  them— in  order  that  he  might  be 

148 


THE  ARTIST 

able  to  record  them,  or  use  them  for  his  weaving 
in  a  purely  aesthetic  manner.  The  moment  they 
impinged  on  his  spirit,  and  sent  the  blood  to  his 
head,  he  reined  in,  and  began  tracing  lines  in  the 
air,  a  practice  that  never  failed  him. 

It  was  his  deliberate  opinion  that  a  work  of  art 
quite  as  great  as  the  "Bacchus  and  Ariadne" 
could  be  made  out  of  a  kettle  singing  on  a  hob. 
You  had  merely  to  record  it  with  beautiful  lines 
and  colour;  and  what — in  parenthesis — could  lend 
itself  more  readily  to  beautiful  treatment  of  lines 
woven  in  the  air  than  steam  rising  from  a  spout  ? 
It  was  a  subject,  too,  which  in  its  very  essence 
almost  precluded  temperamental  treatment,  so 
that  this  abiding  temptation  was  removed  from 
the  creator.  It  could  be  transferred  to  canvas 
with  a  sort  of  immortal  blandness — black,  singing, 
beautiful.  All  that  cant,  such  as,  "The  greater 
the  artist's  spirit,  the  greater  the  subject  he  will 
treat,  and  the  greater  achievement  attain,  tech- 
nique being  equal,"  was  to  him  beneath  contempt. 
The  spirit  did  not  matter,  because  one  must  not 
intrude  it;  and,  since  one  must  not  intrude  it, 
the  more  unpretentious  the  subject,  the  less  temp- 
tation one  had  to  diverge  from  impersonality, 
that  first  principle  of  art.  Oranges  on  a  dish 
afforded  probably  the  finest  subject  one  could  meet 

149 


THE  ARTIST 

with;  unless  one  chanced  to  dislike  oranges.  As 
for  what  people  called  "criticism  of  life,"  he 
maintained  that  such  was  only  permissible  when 
the  criticism  was  so  sunk  into  the  very  fibre  of 
a  work  as  to  be  imperceptible  to  the  most  search- 
ing eye.  When  this  was  achieved  he  thought  it 
extremely  valuable.  Anything  else  was  simply 
the  work  of  the  moralist,  of  the  man  who  took 
sides  and  used  his  powers  of  expression  to  em- 
body a  temperamental  and  therefore  an  obviously 
one-sided  view  of  his  subject;  and,  however  high 
those  powers  of  expression  might  be,  he  could 
not  admit  that  this  was  in  any  sense  real  art. 
He  could  never  forgive  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  be- 
cause, he  said,  "the  fellow  was  always  trying  to 
put  the  scientific  side  of  himself  into  his  con- 
founded paintings,  and  not  just  content  to  render 
faithfully  hi  terms  of  decoration";  nor  could  he 
ever  condone  Euripides  for  letting  his  philosophy 
tincture  his  plays.  And,  if  it  were  advanced  that 
the  former  was  the  greatest  painter  and  the 
latter  the  greatest  dramatist  the  world  had  ever 
seen,  he  would  say:  "That  may  be,  but  they 
weren't  artists,  of  course." 

He  was  fond  of  the  words  "of  course";  they 
gave  the  impression  that  he  could  not  be  startled, 
as  was  right  and  proper  for  a  man  occupying  his 

150 


THE  ARTIST 

post,  a  little  nearer  to  the  Creative  Purpose  than 
those  others.  As  mark  of  that  position,  he  al- 
ways permitted  himself  just  one  eccentricity, 
changing  it  every  year,  his  mind  being  subtle — 
not  like  those  of  certain  politicians  or  million- 
aires, content  to  wear  orchids  or  drive  zebras  all 
their  lives.  Anon  it  would  be  a  little  pointed 
beard  and  no  hair  to  speak  of;  next  year,  no 
beard,  and  wings;  the  year  after,  a  pair  of  pince- 
nez  with  alabaster  rims,  very  cunning;  once  more 
anon,  a  little  pointed  beard.  In  these  ways  he 
singled  himself  out  just  enough,  no  more;  for  he 
was  no  poseur,  believing  in  his  own  place  in  the 
scheme  of  things  too  deeply. 

His  views  on  matters  of  the  day  varied,  of 
course,  with  the  views  of  those  he  talked  to,  since 
it  was  his  privilege  always  to  see  either  the  other 
side  or  something  so  much  more  subtle  on  the 
same  side  as  made  that  side  the  other. 

But  all  topical  thought  and  emotion  was  be- 
side the  point  for  one  who  lived  in  his  work;  who 
lived  to  receive  impressions  and  render  them 
again  so  faithfully  that  you  could  not  tell  he  had 
ever  received  them.  His  was — as  he  sometimes 
felt — a  rare  and  precious  personality. 


151 


VII.    THE  HOUSEWIFE 

Though  f  rugal  by  temperament,  and  instinctively 
aware  that  her  sterling  nature  was  the  bank  in 
which  the  national  wealth  was  surely  deposited, 
she  was  of  benevolent  disposition;  and  when,  as 
occasionally  happened,  a  man  in  the  street  sold 
her  one  of  those  jumping  toys  for  her  children, 
she  would  look  at  him  and  say: 

"How  much?  You  don't  look  well!"  and 
he  would  answer:  "Tuppence,  lidy.  Truth  is, 
lidy,  I've  gone  'ungry  this  lawst  week."  Search- 
ing his  face  shrewdly,  she  would  reply:  "That's 
bad — a  sin  against  the  body.  Here's  threepence. 
Give  me  a  ha'penny.  You  don't  look  well." 
And,  taking  the  ha'penny,  she  would  leave  the 
man  inarticulate. 

Food  appealed  to  her,  not  only  in  relation  to 
herself,  but  to  others.  Often  to  some  friend  she 
would  speak  a  little  bitterly,  a  little  mournfully, 
about  her  husband.  "Yes,  I  quite  like  my 
'hubby'  to  go  out  sometimes  where  he  can  talk 
about  art,  and  war,  and  things  that  women 
can't.  He  takes  no  interest  in  his  food."  And 

152 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

she  would  add,  brooding:  "What  he'd  do  if  I 
didn't  study  him;  I  really  don't  know."  She 
often  felt  with  pain  that  he  was  very  thin.  She 
studied  him  incessantly — that  is,  in  due  propor- 
tion to  their  children,  their  position  in  society, 
their  Christianity,  and  herself.  If  he  was  her 
"hubby,"  she  was  his  "hub" — the  housewife, 
that  central  pivot  of  society,  that  national  pivot, 
which  never  could  or  would  be  out  of  gear.  De- 
void of  conceit,  it  seldom  occurred  to  her  to 
examine  her  own  supremacy,  quietly  content  to 
be  "integer  vitse,  scelerisque  pura" — just  the  one 
person  against  whom  nobody  could  say  anything. 
Subconsciously,  no  doubt,  she  must  have  valued 
her  worth  and  reputation,  or  she  would  never 
have  felt  such  salutary  gusts  of  irritation  and 
contempt  toward  persons  who  had  none.  Like 
cows  when  a  dog  comes  into  a  field,  she  would 
herd  together  whenever  she  saw  a  woman  with 
what  she  suspected  was  a  past,  then  advance 
upon  her,  horns  down.  If  the  offending  creature 
did  not  speedily  vacate  the  field,  she  would,  if 
possible,  trample  her  to  death.  When,  by  any 
chance,  the  female  dog  proved  too  swift  and 
lively,  she  would  remain  sullenly  turning  and 
turning  her  horns  in  the  direction  of  its  vagaries. 
Well  she  knew  that,  if  she  once  raised  those  horns 

153 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

and  let  the  beast  pass,  her  whole  herd  would 
suffer.  There  was  something  almost  magnificent 
about  her  virtue,  based,  as  it  was,  entirely  on  self- 
preservation,  and  her  remarkable  power  of  re- 
jecting all  premises  except  those  peculiar  to  her- 
self. This  gave  it  a  fibre  and  substance  hard  as 
concrete.  Here,  indeed,  was  something  one  could 
build  on;  here,  indeed,  was  the  strait  thing.  Her 
husband  would  sometimes  say  to  her:  "My  dear, 
we  don't  know  what  the  poor  woman's  circum- 
stances were,  we  really  don't,  you  know.  I  think 
we  should  try  to  put  ourselves  in  her  place." 
And  she  would  fix  his  eye,  and  say:  "James, 
it's  no  good.  I  can't  imagine  myself  in  that 
woman's  place,  and  I  won't.  Do  you  think  that 
/  would  ever  leave  you?"  And,  watching  till  he 
shook  his  head,  she  would  go  on:  "Of  course  not. 
No.  Nor  let  you  leave  me."  And,  pausing  a 
second,  to  see  if  he  blinked,  because  men  were 
rather  like  that  (even  those  who  had  the  best 
of  wives),  she  would  go  on:  "She  deserves  all  she 
gets.  I  have  no  personal  feeling,  but,  if  once  de- 
cent women  begin  to  get  soft  about  this  sort  of 
thing,  then  good-bye  to  family  life  and  Chris- 
tianity, and  everything.  I'm  not  hard,  but  there 
are  things  I  feel  strongly  about,  and  this  is  one 
of  them."  And  secretly  she  would  think:  "That's 

154 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

why  he  keeps  so  thin — always  letting  himself 
doubt,  and  sympathise,  where  one  has  no  right 
to.  Men!"  Next  tune  she  passed  the  woman, 
she  would  cut  her  deader  than  the  last  time,  and, 
seeing  her  smile,  would  feel  a  sort  of  divine  fury. 
More  than  once  this  had  led  her  into  courts  of 
law  on  charges  of  libel  and  slander.  But,  know- 
ing how  impregnable  was  her  position,  she  almost 
welcomed  that  opportunity.  For  it  was  ever 
transparent  to  judge  and  jury  from  the  first  that 
she  was  that  crown  of  pearls,  a  virtuous  woman, 
and  so  she  was  never  cast  in  damages. 

On  one  such  occasion  her  husband  had  been  so 
ill-advised  as  to  remark:  "My  dear,  I  have  my 
doubts  whether  our  duty  does  not  stop  at  seeing 
to  ourselves,  without  throwing  stones  at  others." 

"Robert,"  she  had  answered,  "if  you  think 
that,  just  because  there's  a  chance  that  you 
may  have  to  pay  damages,  I'm  going  to  hold  my 
tongue  when  vice  flaunts  itself,  you  make  a  mis- 
take. I  always  put  your  judgment  above  mine, 
but  this  is  not  a  matter  of  judgment — it  is  a 
matter  of  Christian  and  womanly  conduct.  I  can't 
admit  even  your  right  to  dictate." 

She  hated  that  expression,  "The  grey  mare  is 
the  better  horse";  it  was  vulgar,  and  she  would 
never  recognise  its  truth  in  her  own  case — for  a 

155 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

wife's  duty  was  to  submit  herself  to  her  husband, 
as  she  had  already  said.  After  this  little  inci- 
dent she  took  the  trouble  to  go  and  open  her  New 
Testament  and  look  up  the  story  of  a  certain 
woman.  There  was  not  a  word  in  it  about  women 
not  throwing  stones;  the  discouragement  referred 
entirely  to  men.  Exactly !  No  one  knew  better 
than  she  the  difference  between  men  and  women 
in  the  matter  of  moral  conduct.  Probably  there 
were  no  men  without  that  kind  of  sin,  but  there 
were  plenty  of  women,  and,  without  either  false 
or  true  pride,  she  felt  that  she  was  one  of  them. 
And  there  the  matter  rested. 

Her  views  on  political  and  social  questions — 
on  the  whole,  very  simple — were  to  be  summed 
up  in  the  words,  "That  man — !"  and,  so  far 
as  it  lay  in  her  power,  she  saw  to  it  that  her 
daughters  should  not  have  any  views  at  all. 
She  found  this,  however,  an  increasingly  hard 
task,  and  on  one  occasion  was  almost  terrified  to 
find  her  first  and  second  girls  abusing  "that 
man — ,"  not  for  going  too  fast,  but  for  not 
going  fast  enough.  She  spoke  to  William  about 
it,  but  found  him  hopeless,  as  usual,  where  his 
daughters  were  concerned.  It  was  her  principle 
to  rule  them  with  good,  motherly  sense,  as  be- 
came a  woman  in  whose  hands  the  family  life  of 

156 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

her  country  centred;  and  it  was  satisfactory  on 
the  whole  to  find  that  they  obeyed  her  whenever 
they  wished  to.  On  this  occasion,  however,  she 
spoke  to  them  severely:  "The  place  of  woman," 
she  said,  "is  in  the  home."  "The  whole  home — 
and  nothing  but  the  home."  "Ella!  The  place 
of  woman  is  by  the  side  of  man;  counselling, 
supporting,  ruling,  but  never  competing  with 
him.  The  place  of  woman  is  in  the  shop,  the 
kitchen,  and—"  "The— bed!"  "EUa!"  "In 
the  soup!"  "Beatrice!  I  wish — I  do  wish  you 
girls  would  be  more  respectful.  The  place  of 
woman  is  in  the  home.  Yes,  I've  said  that  be- 
fore, but  I  shall  say  it  again,  and  don't  you  for- 
get it!  The  place  of  woman  is — the  most  im- 
portant thing  in  national  life.  If  you  want  to 
realise  that,  just  think  of  your  own  mother; 
and—"  "Our  own  father."  "Ella!  The  place 
of  woman  is  in  the — !"  She  left  the  room,  feel- 
ing that,  for  the  moment,  she  had  said  enough. 

In  disposition  sociable,  and  no  niggard  of  her 
company,  there  was  one  thing  she  liked  to  work 
at  alone — her  shopping,  an  art  which  she  had 
long  reduced  to  a  science.  The  principles  she 
laid  down  are  worth  remembering :  Never  grudge 
your  time  to  save  a  ha'penny.  Never  buy  any- 
thing until  you  have  turned  it  well  over,  recollect- 

157 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

ing  that  the  rest  of  you  will  have  turned  it  over 
too.  Never  let  your  feelings  of  pity  interfere 
with  your  sense  of  justice,  but  bear  in  mind  that 
the  girls  who  sell  to  you  are  paid  for  doing  it; 
if  you  can  afford  the  time  to  keep  them  on  their 
legs,  they  can  afford  the  time  to  let  you.  Never 
read  pamphlets,  for  you  don't  know  what  may 
be  in  them  about  furs,  feathers,  and  forms  of 
food.  Never  buy  more  than  your  husband  can 
afford  to  pay  for;  but,  on  the  whole,  buy  as 
much.  Never  let  any  seller  see  that  you  think 
you  have  bought  a  bargain,  but  buy  one  if  you 
can;  you  will  find  it  pleasant  afterward  to  talk 
of  your  prowess.  Shove,  shove,  and  shove  again ! 

In  the  perfect  application  of  these  principles, 
she  had  found,  after  long  experience,  that  there 
was  absolutely  no  one  to  touch  her. 

In  regard  to  meat,  she  had  sometimes  thought 
she  would  like  to  give  it  up,  because  she  had  read 
in  her  paper  that  being  killed  hurt  the  poor  ani- 
mals; but  she  had  never  gone  beyond  thought, 
because  it  was  very  difficult  to  do  that.  Henry 
was  thin,  and  distinctly  pale;  the  girls  were 
growing  girls;  Sunday  would  hardly  seem  Sun- 
day without;  besides,  it  did  not  do  to  believe 
what  one  read  in  the  paper,  and  it  would  hurt  her 
butcher's  feelings — she  was  sure  of  that.  Christ- 

158 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

mas,  too,  stood  in  the  way.  It  was  one's  duty 
to  be  cheerful  at  that  season,  and  Christmas 
would  seem  so  strange  without  the  cheery  butch- 
ers' shops  and  their  appropriate  holocaust.  She 
had  once  read  some  pages  of  a  disgraceful  book 
that  seemed  going  out  of  its  way  all  the  time  to 
prove  that  she  was  just  an  animal — a  dreadful 
book,  not  at  all  nice !  As  if  she  would  eat  those 
creatures  if  they  were  really  her  brother  animals, 
and  not  just  sent  by  God  to  feed  her.  No;  at 
Christmas  she  felt  especially  grateful  to  the  good 
God  for  his  abundance,  for  all  the  good  things 
he  gave  her  to  eat.  For  all  these  reasons  she 
swallowed  her  scruples  religiously.  But  it  was 
very  different  in  regard  to  dairy  produce;  for 
here  there  was,  she  knew,  a  real  danger — not, 
indeed,  to  the  animals,  but  to  her  family  and 
herself.  She  was  for  once  really  proud  of  the 
thoroughness  with  which  she  dealt  with  that  im- 
portant nourishment — milk.  None  came  into  her 
house  except  in  sealed  bottles,  with  the  name 
of  the  cow,  spiritually  speaking,  on  the  outside. 
Some  wag  had  suggested,  in  her  hearing,  that 
hens  should  be  compelled  to  initial  their  eggs 
when  they  were  delivered,  as  well  as  to  put  the 
dates  on  them.  This  she  had  thought  ribald; 
one  could  go  too  far. 

159 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

She  was,  before  all  things,  an  altruist;  and  in 
nothing  more  so  than  in  her  relations  with  her 
servants.  If  they  did  not  do  their  duty,  they 
went.  It  was  the  only  way,  she  had  found,  to 
really  benefit  them.  Country  girls  and  town 
girls,  they  passed  from  her  in  a  stream,  having 
learned,  once  for  all,  the  standard  that  was  ex- 
pected from  them.  She  christened  and  educated 
more  servants,  perhaps,  than  any  one  in  the  king- 
dom. The  Marthas  went  first,  being  invariably 
dirty;  the  Marys  and  Susans  lasted,  on  an  aver- 
age, perhaps  four  months,  and  then  left  for  many 
reasons.  Cook  seldom  hurried  off  before  her  year 
was  over,  because  it  was  so  difficult  to  get  her 
before  she  came,  and  to  replace  her  after  she  was 
gone;  but  when  she  did  go  it  was  in  a  gale  of 
wind.  The  "day  out"  was,  perhaps,  the  most 
fruitful  source  of  disillusionment — girls  of  that 
class,  no  matter  how  much  they  protested  their 
innocence,  seemed  utterly  unable  to  keep  away 
from  man's  society.  It  was  only  once  a  fortnight 
that  she  required  them  to  exercise  their  self-con- 
trol and  self-respect  in  that  regard,  for  on  the 
other  thirteen  days  she  took  care  that  they  had 
no  chance,  suffering  no  male  footstep  in  her 
basement.  And  yet — would  you  believe  it? — 
on  those  fourteenth  days,  she  was  never  able  to 

160 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

be  easy  in  her  mind.  But,  however  kindly  and 
considerate  she  might  be  in  her  dealings  with 
those  of  lowly  station,  she  found  ever  the  same 
ingratitude,  the  same  incapacity,  or,  as  she  had 
reluctantly  been  forced  to  believe,  the  same  de- 
liberate unwillingness  to  grasp  her  point  of  view. 
It  was  as  if  they  were  always  rudely  saying  to 
themselves:  "What  do  you  know  of  us?  We 
wish  you'd  leave  us  alone!"  The  idea!  As  if 
she  could,  or  would !  As  if  it  were  not  an  almost 
sacred  charge  on  her  in  her  station,  with  the  re- 
sponsibilities that  attached  to  it,  to  look  after  her 
poorer  neighbours  and  see  that  they  acted  prop- 
erly in  their  own  interests.  The  drink,  the  im- 
morality, the  waste  amongst  the  poor  was  notori- 
ous, and  anything  she  could  do  to  lessen  it  she 
always  did,  dismissing  servants  for  the  least  slip, 
and  never  failing  to  point  a  moral.  All  that  new- 
fangled talk  about  the  rich  getting  off  the  backs 
of  the  poor,  about  the  law  not  being  the  same 
for  both,  about  how  easy  it  was  to  be  moral  and 
clean  on  two  thousand  a  year,  she  put  aside  as 
silly.  It  was  just  the  sort  of  thing  that  discon- 
tented people  would  say.  In  this  view  she  was 
supported  daily  by  her  newspaper  and  herself, 
wherever  she  might  be.  No,  no!  If  the  well- 
to-do  did  not  look  after  and  control  the  poor,  no 

161 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

one  would,  which  was  just  what  they  would  like. 
They  were,  in  her  estimation,  incurable;  but,  so 
far  as  lay  in  her  power,  she  would  cure  them, 
however  painful  it  might  be. 

A  religious  woman,  she  rarely  missed  the  morn- 
ing, and  seldom  went  to  evening,  service,  feeling 
that  in  daylight  she  could  best  set  an  example  to 
her  neighbours. 

God  knew  her  views  on  art,  for  she  was  not 
prodigal  of  them — her  most  remarkable  pronounce- 
ment being  delivered  on  hearing  of  the  disappear- 
ance of  the  "Monna  Lisa":  "Oh,  that  dreadful 
woman !  I  remember  her  picture  perfectly.  Well, 
I'm  glad  she's  gone.  I  thought  she  would  some 
day."  When  asked  why,  she  would  only  answer: 
"She  gave  me  the  creeps." 

She  read  such  novels  as  the  library  sent,  to 
save  her  daughters  from  reading  a  second  time 
those  which  did  not  seem  to  her  suitable,  and 
promptly  sent  them  back.  In  this  way  she  pre- 
served purity  in  her  home.  As  to  purity  outside 
the  home,  she  made  a  point  of  never  drawing 
Frederick's  attention  to  female  beauty;  not  that 
she  felt  she  had  any  real  reason  to  be  alarmed, 
for  she  was  a  fine  woman;  but  because  men  were 
so  funny. 

There  were  no  things  in  life  of  which  she  would 
162 


THE  HOUSEWIFE 

have  so  entirely  disapproved,  if  she  had  known 
about  them,  as  Greek  ideals,  for  she  profoundly 
distrusted  any  display  of  the  bare  limb,  and  fully 
realised  that,  whatever  beauty  may  have  meant 
to  the  Greeks,  to  her  and  George  it  meant  some- 
thing very  different.  To  her,  indeed,  Nature  was 
a  "hussy,"  to  be  tied  to  the  wheels  of  that  char- 
iot which  she  was  going  to  keep  as  soon  as  motor- 
cars were  just  a  little  cheaper  and  really  reliable. 
It  was  often  said  that  she  was  a  vanishing  type, 
but  she  knew  better.  Pedantic  fools  murmured 
that  Ibsen  had  destroyed  her,  but  she  had  not 
yet  heard  of  him.  Literary  folk  and  artists,  so- 
cialists and  society  people,  might  talk  of  types, 
and  liberty,  of  brotherhood,  and  new  ideas,  and 
sneer  at  Mrs.  Grundy.  With  what  unmoved  so- 
lidity she  dwelt  among  them !  They  were  but  as 
gadflies,  buzzing  and  darting  on  the  fringes  of  her 
central  bulk.  To  those  flights,  to  that  stinging  she 
paid  less  attention  than  if  she  had  been  cased  in 
leather.  In  the  words  of  her  favourite  Tennyson : 
"They  may  come,  and  they  may  go,  but — what- 
ever you  may  think — I  go  on  forever !" 


163 


VIII.    THE  LATEST  THING 

There  was  in  her  blood  that  which  bade  her 
hasten,  lest  there  should  be  something  still  new 
to  her  when  she  died.  Death !  She  was  contin- 
ually haunted  by  the  fear  lest  that  itself  might 
be  new.  And  she  would  say:  "Do  you  know 
what  it  feels  like  to  be  dead  ?  I  do."  If  she  had 
not  known  this,  she  felt  that  she  would  not  have 
lived  her  life  to  the  full.  And  one  must  live  one's 
life  to  the  full.  Indeed,  yes !  One  must  experi- 
ence everything.  In  her  relations  with  men,  for 
instance,  there  was  nothing,  so  far  as  she  could 
see,  to  prevent  her  from  being  a  good  wife,  good 
mother,  good  mistress,  and  good  friend — to  dif- 
ferent men  all  at  the  same  tune,  and  even  to 
more  than  one  man  of  each  kind,  if  necessary. 
One  had  merely  to  be  oneself,  a  full  nature,  giving 
and  taking  generously.  Greed  was  a  low  and 
contemptible  attribute,  especially  in  woman;  a 
woman  wanted  nothing  more  than — everything, 
and  the  best  of  that.  And  it  was  intolerable  if 
one  could  not  have  that  little.  Women  had  al- 

164 


THE  LATEST  THING 

ways  been  kept  down.  Not  to  be  kept  down  was 
still,  on  the  whole,  new.  Yet  sometimes,  after 
she  had  not  been  kept  down  rather  violently,  she 
would  feel :  Oh;  the  weariness !  I  shall  throw  it 
all  up,  and  live  on  a  shilling  a  day,  like  a  sweated 
worker — that,  at  all  events,  will  be  new!  She 
even  sometimes  dreamed  of  retirement  to  con- 
vent life — the  freshness  of  its  old-world  novelty 
appealed  to  her. 

To  such  an  idealist,  the  very  colours  of  the 
rainbow  did  not  suffice,  nor  all  the  breeds  of  birds 
there  were;  her  life  was  piled  high  with  cages. 
Here  she  had  had  them  one  by  one,  borrowed  their 
songs,  relieved  them  of  their  plumes;  then,  find- 
ing that  they  no  longer  had  any,  let  them  go; 
for  to  look  at  things  without  possessing  them  was 
intolerable,  but  to  keep  them  when  she  had  got 
them  even  more  so. 

She  often  wondered  how  people  could  get  along 
at  all  whose  natures  were  not  so  full  as  hers. 
Life,  she  thought,  must  be  so  dull  for  the  poor 
creatures,  only  doing  one  thing  at  a  time,  and 
that  time  so  long.  What  with  her  painting,  and 
her  music,  her  dancing,  her  flying,  her  motoring, 
her  writing  of  novels  and  poems,  her  love-making, 
maternal  cares,  entertaining,  friendships,  house- 
keeping, wifely  duties,  political  and  social  inter- 

165 


THE  LATEST  THING 

ests,  her  gardening,  talking,  acting,  her  interest 
in  Russian  linen  and  the  woman's  movement; 
what  with  travelling  in  new  countries,  listening  to 
new  preachers,  lunching  new  novelists,  discover- 
ing new  dancers,  taking  lessons  in  Spanish;  what 
with  new  dishes  for  dinner,  new  religions,  new 
dogs,  new  dresses,  new  duties  to  new  neighbours, 
and  newer  charities — life  was  so  full  that  the  mo- 
ment it  stood  stih1  and  was  simply  old  "life,"  it 
seemed  to  be  no  life  at  all. 

She  could  not  bear  the  amateur;  feeling  within 
herself  some  sacred  fire  that  made  her  "an  artist" 
whatever  she  took  up — or  dropped.  She  had  a 
particular  dislike,  too,  of  machine-made  articles; 
for  her,  personality  must  be  deep-woven  into 
everything — look  at  flowers,  how  wonderful  they 
were  in  that  way,  growing  quietly  to  perfection, 
each  in  its  corner,  and  inviting  butterflies  to  sip 
their  dew!  She  knew,  for  she  had  been  told  it 
so  often,  that  she  was  the  crown  of  creation — 
the  latest  thing  in  women,  who  were,  of  course, 
the  latest  thing  in  creatures.  There  had  never, 
till  quite  recently,  been  a  woman  like  her,  so  aw- 
fully interested  in  so  many  things,  so  likely  to 
be  interested  in  so  many  more.  She  had  flung 
open  all  the  doors  of  life,  and  was  so  continually 
going  out  and  coming  in,  that  life  had  some  con- 

166 


THE  LATEST  THING 

siderable  difficulty  in  catching  a  glimpse  of  her 
at  all.  Just  as  the  cinematograph  was  the  future 
of  the  theatre,  so  was  she  the  future  of  women, 
and  in  the  words  of  the  poet  "prou'  title."  To 
sip  at  every  flower  before  her  wings  closed;  if 
necessary,  to  make  new  flowers  to  sip  at.  To 
smoke  the  whole  box  of  cigarettes  straight  off, 
and  in  the  last  puff  of  smoke  expire !  And  withal, 
no  feverishness,  only  a  certain  reposeful  and 
womanly  febrility;  a  mere  perpetual  glancing 
from  quick-sliding  eyes,  to  see  the  next  move, 
to  catch  the  new  movement — God  bless  it !  And, 
mind  you,  a  high  sense  of  duty — perhaps  a  higher 
sense  of  duty  than  that  of  any  woman  who  had 
gone  before;  a  deep  and  intimate  conviction  that 
women  had  an  immensity  of  leeway  to  make  up, 
that  their  old,  starved,  stunted  lives  must  be 
avenged,  and  that  right  soon.  To  enlarge  the 
horizon — this  was  the  sacred  duty!  No  mere 
Boccaccian  or  Louis  Quinze  cult  of  pleasurable 
sensations;  no  crude,  lolling,  plutocratic  dollery 
of  a  spoiled  dame.  No !  the  full,  deep  river  of 
sensations  nibbling  each  other's  tails.  Life  was 
real,  life  was  earnest,  and  time  the  essence  of  its 
contract. 

To  say  that  she  had  favourite  books,  plays, 
men,  dogs,  colours,  was  to  do  her  but  momen- 

167 


THE  LATEST  THING 

tary  justice.  A  deeper  equity  assigned  her  only 
one  favourite — the  next;  and;  for  the  sake  of  that 
one  favourite,  no  Catharine,  no  Semiramis  or 
Messalina,  could  more  swiftly  dispose  of  all  the 
others.  With  what  avidity  she  sprang  into  its 
arms,  drained  its  lips  of  kisses,  looking  hurriedly 
the  while  for  its  successor;  for  Heaven  alone — she 
felt — knew  what  would  happen  to  her  if  she  fin- 
ished drinking  before  she  caught  sight  of  that 
next  necessary  one. 

And  yet,  now  and  again,  time  played  her  false, 
and  she  got  through  too  soon.  It  was  then  that 
she  realised  the  sensation  of  death.  After  the 
first  terrible  inanition,  those  moments  lived  with- 
out "living"  would  begin  to  assume  a  sort  of  pre- 
ciousness,  to  acquire  holy  sensations  of  their  own. 
"I  am  dead,"  she  would  say  to  herself:  "I  really 
am  dead;  I  lie  motionless,  hearing,  feeling,  smell- 
ing, seeing,  thinking  nothing.  I  lie  impalpable — 
yes,  that  is  the  word — completely  impalpable; 
above  me  I  can  see  the  vast  blue  blue,  and  all 
around  me  the  vast  brown  brown — it  is  something 
like  what  I  remember  of  Egypt.  And  there  is  a 
kind  of  singing  in  my  ears,  that  are  really  not 
ears  now,  a  grey,  thin  sound,  like — ah ! — Maeter- 
linck, and  a  very  faint  honey  smell,  like — er — 
Omar  Khayyam.  And  I  just  move  as  a  blade  of 

168 


THE  LATEST  THING 

grass  moves  in  the  wind.  Yes,  I  am  dead.  It 
feels  exactly  like  it."  And  a  new  exhilaration 
would  seize  her,  for  she  felt  that,  in  that  sensa- 
tion of  death,  she  was  living!  At  lunch,  or  it 
might  be  dinner,  she  would  tell  her  newest  man, 
already  past  the  prime  of  her  interest,  exactly 
what  it  felt  like  to  be  dead.  "It's  not  really  dis- 
agreeable," she  would  say;  "it  has  its  own  fla- 
vour. You  know,  like  Turkish  coffee,  just  a  touch 
of  india-rubber  in  it — I  mean  the  coffee."  And 
the  poor  man  would  sneeze,  and  answer:  "Yes, 
I  know  a  little  what  you  mean;  asphodels,  too; 
you  get  it  in  Greece.  My  only  difficulty  is  that, 
if  you  are  dead,  you  know — you — er — are."  She 
would  not  admit  that;  it  sounded  true,  but  the 
man  was  getting  stupid — to  be  dead  like  that 
would  be  the  end  of  novelty,  which  was,  to  her, 
unthinkable. 

Once,  in  a  new  book,  she  came  across  a  little 
tale  of  a  man  who  "lived"  in  Persia,  of  all  heav- 
enly places,  frantically  pursuing  sensation.  En- 
tering one  day  the  courtyard  of  his  house,  he 
heard  a  sigh  behind  him,  and,  looking  round, 
saw  his  own  spirit,  apparently  in  the  act  of  breath- 
ing its  last.  The  little  thing,  dry  and  pearly- 
white  as  a  seed-pod  of  "honesty,"  was  opening 
and  shutting  its  mouth,  for  all  the  world  like  an 

169 


THE  LATEST  THING 

oyster  trying  to  breathe.  "What  is  it?"  he  said; 
"you  don't  seem  well."  And  his  spirit  answered: 
"All  right,  all  right!  Don't  distress  yourself — 
it's  nothing !  I've  just  been  crowded  out.  That's 
all.  Good-bye!"  And,  with  a  wheeze,  the  little 
thing  went  flat,  fell  onto  the  special  blue  tiles 
he  had  caused  to  be  put  down  there,  and  lay 
still.  He  bent  to  pick  it  up,  but  it  came  off  on 
his  thumb  hi  a  smudge  of  grey-white  powder. 

This  fancy  was  so  new  that  it  pleased  her 
greatly,  and  she  recommended  the  book  to  all 
her  friends.  The  moral,  of  course,  was  purely 
Eastern,  and  had  no  applicability  whatever  to 
Western  life,  where,  the  more  one  did  and  ex- 
pressed, the  bigger  and  more  healthy  one's  spirit 
grew — as  witness  what  she  always  felt  to  be 
going  on  within  herself.  But  next  spring  she 
changed  the  blue  tiles  of  her  Persian  smoking- 
room,  put  in  a  birch-wood  floor,  and  made  it  all 
Russian.  This  she  did,  however,  merely  because 
one  new  room  a  year  was  absolutely  essential  to 
her  spirit. 

In  her  perpetual  journey  toward  an  ever- wi- 
dening horizon  of  woman's  life,  she  was  not  so 
foolish  as  to  prize  danger  for  its  own  sake — that 
was  by  no  means  her  idea  of  adventure.  That 
she  ran  some  risks  it  would  be  idle  to  deny,  but 

170 


THE  LATEST  THING 

only  when  she  had  discerned  the  substantial  ad- 
vantage of  a  new  sensation  to  be  had  out  of  ad- 
ventures, not  at  all  because  they  were  necessary 
to  keep  her  soul  alive.  She  was,  she  felt,  a  Greek 
in  spirit,  only  more  so  perhaps,  having  in  her  also 
something  of  America  and  the  West  End. 

How  she  came  to  be  at  all  was  only  known  to 
that  age — whose  daughter  she  undoubtedly  was 
— an  age  which  ran  all  the  time,  without  any 
foolish  notion  where  it  was  running  to.  There 
was  no  novelty  in  a  destination,  and  no  sensation 
to  be  had  from  sitting  cross-legged  in  a  tub  of 
sunlight — not,  at  least,  after  you  had  done  it 
once.  She  had  been  born  to  dance  the  moon 
down,  to  ragtime.  The  moon,  the  moon!  Ah, 
yes!  It  was  the  one  thing  that  had  as  yet  eluded 
her  avidity.  That,  and  her  own  soul. 


171 


IX.    THE  PERFECT  ONE 

When  you  had  seen  him  you  knew  that  there 
was  really  nothing  to  be  said.  Idealism,  human- 
ity, culture,  philosophy,  the  religious  and  aesthetic 
senses — after  all,  where  did  all  that  lead?  Not 
to  him !  What  led  to  him  was  beef,  and  whisky, 
exercise,  wine,  strong  cigars,  and  open  air.  What 
led  to  him  was  anything  that  ministered  to  the 
coatings  of  the  stomach  and  the  thickness  of  the 
skin.  In  seeing  him,  you  also  saw  how  progress, 
civilisation,  and  refinement  simply  meant  attri- 
tion of  those  cuticles  which  made  him  what  he 
was.  And  what  was  he?  Well — perfect!  Per- 
fect for  that  high,  that  supreme  purpose — the 
enjoyment  of  life  as  it  was.  And,  aware  of  his 
perfection — oh,  well  aware ! — with  a  certain  blind 
astuteness  that  refused  reflection  on  the  subject 
— not  caring  what  anybody  said  or  thought,  just 
enjoying  himself,  taking  all  that  came  his  way, 
and  making  no  bones  about  it;  unconscious,  in- 
deed, that  there  were  any  to  be  made.  He  must 

172 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

have  known  by  instinct  that  thought,  feeling, 
sympathy  only  made  a  man  chickeny,  for  he 
avoided  them  in  an  almost  sacred  way.  To  be 
"hard"  was  his  ambition,  and  he  moved  through 
life  hitting  things,  especially  balls — whether  they 
reposed  on  little  inverted  tubs  of  sand,  or  moved 
swiftly  toward  him,  he  almost  always  hit  them, 
and  told  people  how  he  did  it  afterward.  He 
hit  things,  too,  at  a  distance,  through  a  tube,  with 
a  certain  noise,  and  a  pleasant  swelling  sensation 
under  his  fifth  rib  every  time  he  saw  them  tum- 
ble, feeling  that  they  had  swollen  still  more  un- 
der their  fifth  ribs  and  would  not  require  to  be 
hit  again.  He  tried  to  hit  things  in  the  middle 
distance  with  little  hooks  which  he  flung  out  in 
front  of  him,  and  when  they  caught  on,  and  he 
pulled  out  the  result,  he  felt  better.  He  was  a 
sportsman,  and  not  only  in  the  field.  He  hit 
any  one  who  disagreed  with  him,  and  was  very 
angry  if  they  hit  him  back.  He  hit  the  money- 
market  with  his  judgment  when  he  could,  and 
when  he  couldn't,  he  hit  it  with  his  tongue.  And 
all  the  time  he  hit  the  Government.  It  was  a 
perpetual  comfort  to  him  in  those  shaky  times  to 
have  that  Government  to  hit.  Whatever  turned 
out  wrong,  whatever  turned  out  right — there  it 
was!  To  give  it  one — two — three,  and  watch  it 

173 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

crawl  away,  was  wonderfully  soothing.  Of  a  sum- 
mer evening,  sitting  in  the  window  of  his  club, 
having  hit  balls  or  bookies  hard  all  day,  how 
pleasant  still  to  have  that  fellow  Dash,  and  that 

fellow  Blank,  and  all  the y  crew  to  hit  still 

harder.  He  hit  women,  not,  of  course,  with  his 
fists,  but  with  his  philosophy.  Women  were 
made  for  the  perfection  of  men;  they  had  pro- 
duced, nourished,  and  nursed  him,  and  he  now 
felt  the  necessity  for  them  to  comfort  and  satisfy 
him.  When  they  had  done  that  he  felt  no  fur- 
ther responsibility  in  regard  to  them;  to  feel 
further  responsibility  was  to  be  effeminate.  The 
idea,  for  instance,  that  a  spiritual  feeling  must 
underlie  the  physical  was  extravagant;  and  when 
a  woman  took  another  view,  he  took — if  not 
actually,  then  metaphorically — a  stick.  He  was 
almost  Teutonic  in  that  way.  But  the  Govern- 
ment, the  Government!  Right  and  left,  he  hit 
it  all  the  time.  He  had  a  rooted  conviction  that 
some  day  it  would  hit  him  back,  and  this  naturally 
exasperated  him.  In  the  midst  of  danger  to  the 
game  laws,  of  socialism,  and  the  woman's  move- 
ment, the  only  hope,  almost  the  only  comfort, 
lay  in  hitting  the  Government.  For  socialists  were 
getting  so  near  that  he  could  only  hit  them  now 
in  clubs,  music-halls,  and  other  quite  safe  places; 

174 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

and  the  woman's  movement  might  be  trusted  im- 
plicitly to  hit  itself.  Thus,  in  the  world  arena 
there  was  nothing  left  but  that  godsend.  Always 
a  fair  man;  and  of  thoroughly  good  heart,  he,  of 
course,  gave  it  credit  for  the  same  amount  of 
generosity  and  good  will  that  he  felt  present  in 
his  own  composition.  There  was  no  extravagance 
in  that;  and  any  man  who  gave  it  more  he 
deemed  an  ass. 

He  had  heard  of  "the  people,"  and,  indeed,  at 
times  had  seen  and  smelt  them;  it  had  sufficed. 
Some  persons,  he  knew,  were  concerned  about 
their  condition  and  all  that;  but  what  good  it 
would  do  him  to  share  that  concern  he  could  not 
see.  Fellows  spoke  of  them  as  "poor  devils,"  and 
so  forth;  to  his  mind  they  were  "pretty  good 
rotters,"  most  of  them — especially  the  working- 
man,  who  wanted  something  for  nothing  all  the 
time,  and  grumbled  when  he  got  it.  The  more 
you  gave  him  the  more  he  wanted,  and,  if  he 

were  this  Government,  instead  of  coddling 

the  blighters  up  he  would  hit  them  one,  and 
have  done  with  it.  Insurance,  indeed;  pensions; 
land  reform;  minimum  wage — it  was  a  bit  too 
thick!  They  would  soon  be  putting  the  beg- 
gars into  glass  cases,  and  labelling  them  "This 
side  up." 

175 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

Sometimes  he  dreamed  of  the  time  when  he 
would  have  to  ride  for  God  and  the  king.  But 
he  strongly  repelled,  of  course,  any  suggestion 
that  he  had  been  brought  up  to  a  belief  in  "caste." 
At  his  school  he  had  once  kicked  a  small  scion  of 
the  royal  family;  this  heroic  action  had  dispersed 
in  his  mind  once  for  all  any  notion  that  he  was 
a  snob.  "Caste,"  indeed!  There  was  no  such 
thing  in  England  nowadays.  Had  he  not  sung 
"The  Leather  Bottel"  to  an  audience  of  dirty 
people  in  his  school  mission-hall,  and — rather  en- 
joyed it.  It  was  not  his  fault  that  Labor  was  not 
satisfied.  It  was  all  those  professional  agitators, 
confound  them !  He  himself  was  opposed  to  set- 
ting class  against  class.  It  was,  however,  ridicu- 
lous to  imagine  that  he  was  going  to  hobnob  with 
or  take  interest  in  people  who  weren't  clean,  who 
wore  clothes  with  a  disagreeable  smell — people, 
moreover,  who,  in  the  most  blatant  way,  showed 
him  continually  that  they  wanted  what  he  had 
got.  No,  no!  there  were  limits.  Clean,  at  all 
events,  any  one  could  be — it  was  the  sine  qud,  non. 
What  with  clothes,  a  man  to  look  after  them, 
baths,  and  so  on,  he  himself  spent  at  least  two 
hundred  a  year  on  being  clean,  and  even  took 
risks  with  the  thickness  of  his  skin,  from  the  way 
he  rubbed  and  scrubbed  it.  A  man  could  not 

176 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

be  hard  and  healthy  if  he  wasn't  clean,  and  if 
the  blighters  were  only  hard  and  healthy  they 
would  not  be  bleating  about  their  wants. 

One  could  see  him  perhaps  to  the  best  advan- 
tage in  lands  like  India,  or  Egypt,  striding  in  the 
early  morn  over  the  purlieus  of  the  desert,  with 
his  loping,  strenuous  step,  scurried  after  by  what 
looked  like  little  dark  and  anxious  women,  carry- 
ing his  golf-clubs;  his  eyes,  with  their  look  of  out- 
facing Death,  fixed  on  the  ball  that  he  had  just 
hit  so  hard,  intent  on  overtaking  it  and  hitting 
it  even  harder  next  time.  Did  he  at  these  times 
of  worship  ever  pause  to  contemplate  that  vast 
and  ancient  plain  where,  in  the  distance,  pyra- 
mids, those  creatures  of  eternity,  seemed  to  tremble 
in  the  sun  haze?  Did  he  ever  feel  an  ecstatic 
wonder  at  the  strange  cry  of  immemorial  peoples 
far-travelling  the  desert  air;  or  look  and  marvel 
at  those  dark  and  anxious  little  children  of  old 
civilisations  who  pattered  after  him?  Did  he 
ever  feel  the  majesty  of  those  vast  lonely  sands 

and  that  vast  lonely  sky?    Not  he!    He  d d 

well  hit  the  ball,  until  his  skin  began  to  act; 
then,  going  in,  took  a  bath,  and  rubbed  himself. 
At  such  moments  he  felt  perhaps  more  truly 
religious  than  at  any  other,  for  one  naturally 
could  not  feel  so  fit  and  good  on  Sundays,  with 

177 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

the  necessity  it  imposed  for  extra  eating,  smok- 
ing, kneeling,  and  other  sedentary  occupations. 
Indeed,  he  had  become  perhaps  a  little  distracted 
in  religious  matters.  There  seemed  to  be  things 
in  the  Bible  about  turning  the  other  cheek,  and 
lilies  of  the  field,  about  rich  men  and  camels,  and 
the  poor  in  spirit,  which  did  not  go  altogether 
with  his  religion.  Still,  of  course,  one  remained 
in  the  English  church,  hit  things,  and  hoped  for 
the  best. 

Once  his  convictions  nearly  took  a  toss.  It 
was  on  a  ship,  not  as  classy  as  it  might  have 
been,  so  that  he  was  compelled  to  talk  to  people 
that  he  would  not  otherwise  perhaps  have  noticed. 
Amongst  such  was  a  fellow  with  a  short  beard, 
coming  from  Morocco.  This  person  was  lean  and 
brown,  his  eyes  were  extremely  clear;  he  held 
himself  very  straight,  and  looked  fit  to  jump  over 
the  moon.  It  seemed  obvious  that  he  hit  a  lot 
of  things.  One  questioned  him,  therefore,  with 
some  interest  as  to  what  he  had  been  hitting. 
The  fellow  had  been  hitting  nothing,  absolutely 
nothing.  How  on  earth,  then,  did  he  keep  him- 
self so  fit?  Walking,  riding,  fasting,  swimming, 
climbing  mountains,  writing  books;  hitting  neither 
the  Government  nor  golf  balls !  Never  to  hit  any- 
thing; write  books,  tolerate  the  Government,  and 

178 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

look  like  that !  It  was  'not  done.'  And  the  odd 
thing  was,  the  fellow  didn't  seem  to  know  or  care 
whether  he  was  fit  or  not.  All  the  four  days  that 
the  voyage  lasted,  with  this  infernal  healthy  fel- 
low under  his  very  nose,  he  suffered.  There  was 
nothing  to  hit  on  board,  and  he  himself  did  not 
feel  very  fit.  However,  on  reaching  Southampton 
and  losing  sight  of  his  travelling  acquaintance  he 
soon  regained  his  equanimity. 

He  often  wondered  what  he  would  do  when  he 
passed  the  age  of  fifty;  and  felt  more  and  more 
that  he  would  either  have  to  go  into  Parliament 
or  take  up  the  duties  of  a  county  magistrate. 
After  that  age  there  were  certain  kinds  of  balls 
and  beasts  that  could  no  longer  be  hit  with  im- 
punity, and  if  one  was  at  all  of  an  active  turn  of 
mind  one  must  have  substitutes.  Marriage,  no 
doubt,  would  do  something  for  him,  but  not 
enough;  his  was  a  strenuous  nature,  and  he  in- 
tended to  remain  "hard"  unto  the  end.  To 
combine  that  with  service  to  his  country,  espe- 
cially if,  incidentally,  he  could  hit  socialism  and 
poachers,  radicals,  loafers,  and  the  income  tax — 
this  seemed  to  him  an  ideal  well  worthy  of  his 
philosophy  and  life,  so  far.  And  with  this  in 
mind  he  lived  on,  his  skin  thickening,  growing 
ever  more  and  more  perfect,  more  and  more  im- 

179 


THE  PERFECT  ONE 

pervious  to  thought  and  feeling,  to  sestheticism, 
sympathy,  and  all  the  elements  destructive  of 
perfection.  And  thus — when  his  time  has  come 
there  is  every  hope  that  he  may  die. 


180 


X.    THE   COMPETITOR 

He  was  given  that  way  almost  from  his  nurs- 
ery days,  for  he  could  not  even  dress  without 
racing  his  little  brother  in  the  doing  up  of  little 
buttons,  and  being  upset  if  he  got  one  little  but- 
ton behind.  At  the  age  of  eight  he  climbed  all 
the  trees  of  his  father's  garden  and,  arriving  at 
their  tops,  felt  a  pang  because  the  creatures  left 
off  so  abruptly  that  he  could  not  get  any  higher. 
He  wrestled  with  anybody  who  did  not  mind  roll- 
ing on  the  floor;  and  stayed  awake  once  all  night 
because  he  heard  that  one  of  his  cousins  was  com- 
ing next  day  and  was  a  year  older  than  himself. 
It  was  not  that  he  desired  to  see  this  cousin,  to 
welcome,  or  give  him  a  good  time;  he  simply  de- 
signed to  race  him  in  the  kitchen-garden,  and 
to  wrestle  with  him  afterward.  It  would  be 
grand,  he  thought,  to  bump  the  head  of  some  one 
a  year  older  than  himself.  The  cousin,  however, 
was  "scratched"  at  the  last  moment.  It  was  a 
blow.  At  the 'age  of  ten  he  cut  his  head  open 
against  a  swing,  and  so  far  forgot  himself  as  to 
cry  when  he  saw  the  blood  flowing.  To  have 

181 


THE  COMPETITOR 

missed  such  an  opportunity  of  being  superior  to 
other  small  boys  made  an  indelible  mark  on  his 
soul,  for,  though  he  had  not  cried  from  pain,  he 
had  from  fright,  and  felt  he  might  have  beaten 
both  emotions,  if  only  he  had  had  proper  warning. 

His  first  term  at  school  he  came  out  top,  after 
a  terrific  struggle;  there  was  one  other  boy  in  the 
class.  And  term  after  term  he  went  on  coming 
out  top,  or  very  near  it.  He  never  knew  what 
he  was  learning,  but  he  knew  that  he  beat  other 
boys.  He  ran  all  the  races  he  could,  and  played 
all  the  games;  not  because  he  enjoyed  them,  but 
because  unless  you  did  you  could  not  win.  He 
was  considered  almost  a  prize  specimen. 

He  went  to  college  in  an  exhausted  condition, 
and  for  two  years  devoted  himself  to  dandyism, 
designing  to  be  the  coolest,  slackest,  best-dressed 
man  up.  He  almost  was.  But  as  that  day  ap- 
proached when  one  must  either  beat  or  be  beaten 
in  learning  by  one's  contemporaries,  a  fearful  feel- 
ing beset  him,  and  he  rushed  .off  to  a  crammer. 
For  a  whole  year  he  poured  the  crammer's  notes 
into  his  memory.  What  they  were  all  about  he 
had  no  notion,  but  his  memory  retained  them  just 
over  that  hot  week  when  he  sat  writing  for  his 
life,  twice  a  day.  He  would  have  received  a 
First,  had  not  an  examiner  who  did  not  under- 

182 


THE  COMPETITOR 

stand  that  examinations  are  simply  held  to  deter- 
mine who  can  beat  whom,  asked  him  in  the  liv- 
ing voice  a  question,  to  answer  which  required  a 
knowledge  of  why  there  was  an  answer.  He  came 
down  exhausted,  and  ate  his  dinners  for  the  Bar. 
It  was  an  occupation  at  which  he  could  achieve 
no  distinction  save  that  of  eating  them  faster  than 
any  other  student;  and  for  two  whole  years  he 
merely  devoted  himself  to  trying  to  be  the  best 
amateur  actor  and  the  best  shot  in  the  land.  His 
method  of  acting  was  based  on  nothing  so  flat 
as  identification  with  the  character  he  personified, 
but  on  the  amount  of  laughter  and  applause  that 
he  could  get  in  excess  of  that  bestowed  on  any 
other  member  of  the  company.  Nor  did  he  shoot 
birds  because  he  loved  them,  like  a  true  sports- 
man, but  because  it  was  a  pleasure  to  him  to  feel 
each  day  that  he  had  shot  or  was  going  to  shoot 
more  than  any  one  else  who  was  shooting  with 
him. 

The  time  had  now  come  for  him  to  embrace 
his  profession,  and  he  did  so  like  a  true  Briton, 
with  his  eye  ever  on  the  future.  He  perceived 
from  the  first  that  this  particular  race  was  longer 
than  any  race  he  had  ever  started  for,  and  he 
began  slowly,  with  a  pebble  in  his  mouth,  hus- 
banding his  wind.  The  whole  thing  was  ex- 

183 


THE  COMPETITOR 

tremely  dry  and  extremely  boring,  but  of  course 
one  had  to  get  there  before  all  those  other  fel- 
lows. And  round  and  round  he  ran,  increasing 
his  speed  almost  imperceptibly,  soon  beginning 
to  have  his  eye  on  the  half-dozen  who  seemed 
dangerously  likely  to  get  there  before  him  if  he 
did  not  mind  that  eye.  It  cannot  be  said  that 
he  enjoyed  his  work,  or  cared  for  the  money  it 
brought  him,  for,  what  with  getting  through  his 
day,  and  thinking  of  those  other  fellows  who 
might  be  forging  ahead  of  him,  he  had  no  time 
to  spend  money,  or  even  to  give  it  away.  And 
so  it  began  rolling  up.  One  day,  however,  per- 
ceiving that  he  had  quite  a  lot,  the  thought  came 
to  him  that  he  ought  to  do  something  with  it. 
And  happening  soon  after  to  go  into  a  picture- 
gallery,  he  bought  a  picture.  He  had  not  had 
it  long  before  it  seemed  to  him  better  than  the 
picture  of  a  friend  who  rather  went  in  for  them; 
and  he  thought,  "  I  could  easily  beat  him  if  I  gave 
myself  to  it  a  little."  And  he  did.  It  was  fas- 
cinating to  perceive,  each  time  he  bought,  that 
his  taste  had  improved,  and  was  getting  steadily 
ahead  of  his  friend's  taste;  and,  indeed,  not  only 
of  his  friend's,  but  of  that  of  other  people.  He 
felt  that  soon  he  would  have  better  taste  than  any- 
body, and  he  bought  and  bought.  It  was  not  that 

184 


THE  COMPETITOR 

he  cared  for  the  pictures,  for  he  really  had  not 
time  or  mind  to  give  to  them — set  as  he  was  on 
reaching  eminence;  but  he  dreamed  of  leaving 
them  to  the  National  Gallery  as  a  monument  to 
his  taste,  and  final  proof  of  superiority  to  his 
friend,  after  they  were  both  gone. 

About  this  tune  he  took  silk,  sacrificing  nearly 
half  of  his  income.  He  would  have  preferred  to 
wait  longer,  had  he  not  perceived  that  if  he  did 

wait,  his  friends  and  and 

would  be  taking  silk  before  him.  And,  since  he 
meant  to  be  a  judge  first,  this  must  naturally  be 
guarded  against.  The  prospective  loss  of  so  much 
income  made  him  for  a  moment  restful  and  ex- 
pansive, as  if  he  felt  that  he  had  been  pushed 
almost  too  far  by  his  competitive  genius;  and  so 
he  found  time  to  marry — it  being  the  commence- 
ment of  the  long  vacation.  For  six  weeks  he 

hardly  thought  of  his  friends and and 

,  but  near  the  end  of  September  he  was 

shocked  back  into  a  more  normal  frame  of  mind 
by  the  news  that  they  also  had  been  offered  and 
had  taken  silk.  It  behoved  him,  he  felt,  to  put 
his  wife  behind  him  and  go  back  into  harness. 
It  would  be  just  like  those  fellows  to  get  ahead 
of  him,  if  they  could;  and  he  curtailed  his  honey- 
moon by  quite  three  weeks.  Not  two  years,  how- 

185 


THE  COMPETITOR 

ever,  elapsed  before  it  became  clear  to  him  that 
to  keep  his  place  he  must  enter  Parliament.  And 
against  his  own  natural  feelings,  against  even  the 
inclinations  of  his  country,  he  secured  a  seat  at 
the  general  election  and  began  sitting.  What, 
then,  was  his  chagrin  to  find  that  his  friend  -  — , 

and  his  friend ,  and  even  his  friend , 

had  also  secured  seats,  and  were  sitting  when  he 
got  there !  What  with  the  courts,  and  what  with 
'the  House,'  he  became  lean  and  very  yellow; 
and  his  wife  complained.  He  determined  to  give 
her  a  child  every  year  to  keep  her  quiet;  for  he 
felt  that  he  must  have  perfect  peace  in  his  home 
surroundings  if  he  were  to  maintain  his  position 
in  the  great  life  race  for  which  he  had  started, 

knowing  that  his  friends and and 

would  never  hesitate  to  avail  themselves  of 

his  ill  health,  to  beat  him.  None  of  those  wretched 
fellows  were  having  so  many  children.  He  did 
not  find  his  work  in  Parliament  congenial;  it 
seemed  to  him  unreal.  For  he  could  not  get  his 
mind — firmly  fixed  on  himself  and  the  horizon — 
to  believe  that  all  those  little  measures  which  he 
was  continually  passing  would  benefit  people  with 
whose  lives  he  really  had  not  time  or  inclination 
to  be  familiar.  When  one  had  got  up,  pre- 
pared two  cases,  had  breakfast,  walked  down  to 

186 


THE  COMPETITOR 

the  courts,  sat  there  from  half  past  ten  to  four, 
walked  to  'the  House/  sat  there  a  little  longer 

than  his  friend (the  worst  of  them), 

spoken  if  his  friend  had  spoken,  or  if  he 

thought  his  friend were  going  to  speak,  had 

dinner,  prepared  two  cases,  kissed  his  wife,  men- 
tally compared  his  last  picture  with  that  last  one 
of  his  friend's,  had  a  glass  of  barley-water,  and 
gone  to  bed — when  one  had  done  all  this,  there 
really  was  not  time  for  living  his  own  life,  much 
less  any  one  else's.  He  sometimes  thought  he 
would  have  to  give  up  doing  so  much;  but  that, 
of  course,  was  out  of  the  question,  seeing  that 
his  friends  would  at  once  shoot  ahead.  He  took 
"Vitogen"  instead.  They  used  his  photograph, 
with  the  words,  "It  does  wonders  with  me,"  com- 
ing out  of  his  mouth,  and  on  the  opposite  page 

they  used  a  photograph  of  his  friend , 

with  the  words,  "I  take  a  glass  a  day,  and  revel 
in  it,"  coming  out  of  his.  On  discovering  this 
he  increased  the  amount  at  some  risk  to  two 
glasses,  determined  not  to  be  outdone  by  that 
fellow. 

He  sometimes  wondered  whether,  in  the  army, 
the  church,  the  stock  exchange,  or  in  literature, 
he  would  not  have  had  a  more  restful  life;  for 
he  would  by  no  means  have  admitted  that  he 

187 


THE  COMPETITOR 

carried  within  himself  the  microbe  of  his  own 
fate. 

His  natural  love  of  beauty,  for  instance,  in- 
spired him  when  he  saw  a  sunset,  or  a  mountain, 
or  even  a  sea,  with  the  thought:  How  jolly  it 
would  be  to  look  at  it!  But  he  had  gradually 
become  so  reconciled  to  knowing  he  had  not  time 
for  this  that  he  never  did.  But  if  he  had  heard 

by  any  chance  that  his  friend did  find 

time  to  contemplate  such  natural  beauties,  he 
would  certainly  have  contrived  somehow  to  con- 
template them  too. 

As  the  time  approached  for  being  made  a  judge 
he  compared  himself  more  and  more  carefully 

with  his  friends and and . 

If  they  were  appointed  before  him,  it  would  be 
very  serious  for  his  prospects  of  ultimate  pre- 
eminence. And  it  was  with  a  certain  relief,  tem- 
pered with  sorrow,  that  he  heard  one  summer 

morning  that  his  friend had  fallen  seriously 

ill,  and  was  not  expected  to  recover.  He  was 
assiduous  in  the  expression  of  an  anxiety  that 

was  quite  genuine.  His  friend died  as  the 

courts  rose.  And  all  through  that  long  vacation 

he  thought  continually  of  poor ,  and  of  his 

career  cut  so  prematurely  short.  It  was  then  that 
the  idea  came  to  him  of  capping  his  efforts  by 

188 


THE  COMPETITOR 

writing  a  book.  He  chose  for  subject,  "The  Evils 
of  Competition  in  the  Modern  State/'  and  de- 
voted to  it  every  minute  he  could  spare  during 
autumn  months,  fortunately  bereft  of  Parliamen- 
tary duties.  It  would  just,  he  felt,  make  the  dif- 
ference between  himself  and  his  friends and 

,  to  a  government  essentially  favourable 

to  literary  men.  He  finished  it  at  Christmas,  and 
arranged  for  a  prompt  publication.  It  was  with 
a  certain  natural  impatience  that  he  read,  two 
days  later,  of  the  approaching  issue  of  a  book  by 

his  friend ,  entitled,  "Joy  of  Life,  or 

the  Cult  of  the  Moment."  What  on  earth  the 
fellow  was  about  to  rush  into  print  and  on  such 
a  subject  he  was  at  a  loss  to  understand!  The 
book  came  out  a  week  before  his  own.  He  read 
the  reviews  rather  feverishly,  for  they  were  favour- 
able. What  to  do  now  to  recover  his  lead  he 
hardly  knew.  If  he  had  not  been  married  it 
might  have  been  possible  to  arrange  something 
in  that  line  with  the  daughter  of  an  important 
personage;  as  it  was,  there  was  nothing  for  it 
but  to  part  with  his  pictures  to  the  National  Gal- 
lery by  way  of  a  loan.  And  this  he  did,  to  the 
chagrin  of  his  wife,  about  the  middle  of  May. 
On  the  1st  of  June  he  read  in  his  Sunday  paper 

that  his  friend —  had  given  his  library 

189 


THE  COMPETITOR 

outright  to  the  British  Museum.  Some  relief  to 
the  strain  of  his  anxiety,  however,  was  afforded 
in  July  by  the  unexpected  accession  of  his  friend 

to  a  peerage,  through  the  death  of  a  cousin. 

The  estate  attached  was  considerable.  He  felt 
that  this  friend  at  all  events  would  not  continue 
to  struggle;  he  would  surely  recognise  that  he 
was  removed  from  active  life.  His  premonition 

was  correct;  and  his  friend and  himself 

were  left  to  fight  it  out  alone. 

That  judge  who  had  so  long  been  expected  to 
quit  his  judgeship  did  so  for  another  world  in  the 
fourth  week  of  the  long  vacation. 

He  hastened  back  to  town  at  once.  This  was 
one  of  the  most  crucial  moments  of  a  crucial  ca- 
reer. If  appointed,  he  would  be  the  youngest 

judge.  But  his  friend  was  of  the 

same  age,  the  same  politics,  the  same  calibre  in 
every  way,  and  more  robust.  During  those  weeks 
of  waiting,  therefore,  he  grew  perceptibly  greyer. 
His  joy  knew  only  the  bounds  of  a  careful  con- 
cealment, when,  at  the  beginning  of  October,  he 
was  appointed  a  judge  of  the  High  Court;  for  it 
was  not  till  the  following  morning  that  he  learned 

that  his  friend had  also  been  appointed, 

the  Government  having  decided  to  add  one  to 
the  number  of  his  Majesty's  judges.  Which  of 

190 


THE  COMPETITOR 

them  had  been  made  the  extra  judge  he  neither 
dared  nor  cared  to  inquire;  but;  setting  his  teeth, 
entered  forthwith  on  his  duties. 

It  cannot  be  pretended  that  he  liked  them;  to 
like  them  one  would  have  to  take  a  profound,  and, 
as  it  were,  amateurish  interest  in  equity  and  the 
lives  of  one's  fellow  men.  For  this,  of  course,  he 
had  not  time,  having  to  devote  all  his  energies  to 
not  having  his  judgments  reversed,  and  watching 

the  judgments  of  his  friend .    In  the 

first  year  that  fellow  was  upset  in  the  Court  of 
\Appeal  three  times  oftener  than  himself,  and  it 
came  as  a  blow  when  the  House  of  Lords  so  re- 
stored him  that  they  came  out  equal.  In  other 
respects,  of  course,  the  life  was  something  of  a 
rest  after  that  which  he  had  led  hitherto,  and  he 
watched  himself  carefully  lest  he  might  deterio- 
rate, and  be  tempted  to  enjoy  himself,  steadily  re- 
sisting every  effort  on  the  part  of  his  friends  and 
family  to  draw  him  into  recreations  other  than 
those  of  dining  out,  playing  golf,  and  improving 
his  acquaintanceship  with  that  Law  of  which  he 
would  require  a  perfect  knowledge  when  he  be- 
came Lord  Chancellor.  He  never  could  quite 
make  up  his  mind  whether  to  be  glad  or  sorry 
that  his  friend  —  -  did  not  confine  himself 

entirely  to  this  curriculum. 

191 


THE  COMPETITOR 

At  about  this  epoch  he  became  so  extremely 
moderate  in  his  politics  that  neither  party  knew  to 
which  of  them  he  belonged.  It  was  a  period  of 
uncertainty  when  no  man  could  say  in  whose 
hands  power  would  be  in,  say,  five  or  ten  years' 
time,  and  instinctively  he  felt  that  he  must  look 
ahead.  A  moderate  man  stood  perhaps  the 
greater  chance  of  steady  and  perpetual  prefer- 
ment, and  he  felt  moderate,  now  that  the  spur  of 
a  necessary  political  activity  was  removed.  It 
was  a  constant  source  of  uneasiness  to  him  that 

his  friend had  become  so  dark  a  horse 

that  one  could  find  out  nothing  about  his  polit- 
ical convictions;  people,  indeed,  went  so  far  as 
to  say  that  the  beggar  had  none. 

He  had  not  been  a  judge  four  years  when  an 
epidemic  of  influenza  swept  off  three  of  his  Maj- 
esty's judges,  and  sent  one  mad;  and  almost 
imperceptibly  he  found  himself  sitting  with  his 
friend in  the  Court  of  Appeal.  Hav- 
ing the  fellow  there  under  his  eye  day  by  day, 
he  was  able  to  study  him,  and  noted  with  satis- 
faction that,  though  more  robust,  he  was  cer- 
tainly of  full  and  choleric  temperament,  and  not 
too  careful  of  himself.  At  once  he  began  taking 
extra  care  of  his  own  health,  giving  up  wine,  to- 
bacco, and  any  other  pleasure  that  he  had  left. 

192 


THE  COMPETITOR 

For  three  years  they  sat  there  side  by  side,  al- 
most mechanically  differing  in  their  judgments; 
and  then  one  morning  the  Prime  Minister  went 

and  made  his  friend Lord  Chief  Justice, 

and  himself  only  Master  of  the  Rolls.  The  shock 
was  very  great.  After  a  week's  indisposition,  he 
reset  his  teeth  and  decided  to  struggle  on;  his 

friend was  not  Lord  Chancellor  yet! 

Two  more  years  passed,  during  which  he  unwill- 
ingly undermined  his  health  by  dining  constantly 
in  the  highest  social  and  political  circles,  and 
delivering  longer  and  weightier  judgments  every 
day.  His  wife  and  children,  who  still  had  access 
to  him  at  times,  watched  him  with  anxiety. 

One  morning  they  found  him  pacing  up  and  down 
the  dining-room  with  The  Times  newspaper  in  his 
hand,  and  every  mark  of  cerebral  excitement. 
His  friend had  made  a  speech  at  a  cer- 
tain banquet,  in  which  he  had  hit  the  Govern- 
ment a  nasty  knock.  It  was  now,  of  course, 
only  a  question  of  whether  they  would  retain  of- 
fice till  the  Lord  Chancellor,  who  was  very  shaky, 
dropped  off.  He  dropped  off  in  June,  and  they 
buried  him  in  Westminster  Abbey;  his  friend 

and  himself  being  chief  mourners.    In 

the  same  week  the  Government  was  defeated. 
The  state  of  his  mind  can  now  not  well  be  im- 

193 


THE  COMPETITOR 

agined.  In  one  week  he  lost  five  pounds  that 
could  not  be  spared.  He  stopped  losing  weight 
when  the  Government  decided  to  hang  on  till  the 
end  of  the  session.  On  the  15th  of  July  the 
Prime  Minister  sent  for  him,  and  offered  him  the 
Chancellorship.  He  accepted  it,  after  first  draw- 
ing attention  to  the  superior  claims  of  his  friend 

.    That  evening,  in  the  bosom  of  his 

family,  he  sat  silent.  A  little  smile  played  three 
times  on  his  worn  lips,  and  now  and  again  his 
thin  hand  smoothed  the  parallel  folds  in  his  cheeks. 
His  youngest  daughter,  moving  to  the  bell  behind 
his  revered  and  beloved  presence,  heard  him  sud- 
denly mutter,  and  bending  hastily  caught ,  the 
precious  words:  "Pipped  him  on  the  post,  by 
gum!" 

He  took  up  his  final  honours  with  the  utmost 
ceremony.  From  that  moment  it  was  almost  too 
noticeable  how  his  powers  declined.  It  was  as  if 
he  had  felt  that,  having  won  the  race,  he  had 
nothing  left  to  live  for.  Indeed,  he  only  waited 

till  his  friend had  received  a  slight 

stroke  before,  under  doctor's  orders,  he  laid  down 
office.  He  dragged  on  for  several  years,  writing 
his  memoirs,  but  without  interest  in  life;  till  one 
day,  being  drawn  in  his  Bath-chair  down  the  es- 
planade at  Margate,  he  was  brought  to  a  stand- 

194 


THE  COMPETITOR 

still  by  another  chair  being  drawn  in  the  opposite 
direction.  Letting  his  eye  rest  wearily  on  the 

occupant,  he  recognised  his  friend  . 

How  the  fellow  had  changed;  but  not  in  nature, 
for  he  quavered  out  at  once:  "Hallo !  It's  you ! 
By  George !  You  look  j  oily  bad ! ' '  Hearing  those 
words,  seeing  that  paralytic  smile,  a  fire  seemed 
suddenly  relit  within  him.  Compressing  his  lips, 
he  answered  nothing,  and  dug  his  Bath-chair  man 
in  the  back.  From  that  moment  he  regained  his 
interest  in  life.  If  he  could  not  outlive  his  friend 

it  would  be  odd !    And  he  set  himself 

to  do  it,  thinking  of  nothing  else  by  day  or  night, 

and  sending  daily  to  inquire  how  his  friend 

-  was.  The  fellow  lived  till  New  Year's  Day, 
and  died  at  two  in  the  morning.  They  brought 
him  the  news  at  nine.  A  smile  lighted  up  his 
parched  and  withered  face;  his  old  hands,  clenched 
on  the  feeding-cup,  relaxed;  he  fell  back — dead. 
The  shock  of  his  old  friend's  death,  they  said, 
had  been  too  much  for  him. 


195 


ABRACADABRA 

Our  families  occupied  neighbouring  houses  in 
the  country,  and  Minna  used  to  hide  in  the  bath- 
room whenever  our  governess  took  us  round.  She 
was  to  us  but  a  symbol  of  shyness  for  months  be- 
fore she  became  a  body — a  very  thin  body,  with 
dark,  straggly  hair,  and  dark  eyes,  and  very  long 
legs  and  arms  for  an  eight-year-old.  Looking 
back  on  her  hardihoods  from  eight  to  fifteen,  I 
find  difficulty  hi  assigning  to  the  bathroom  period 
its  full  significance,  to  realise  that  she  actually 
used  to  make  herself  invisible  because  she  could 
not  face  strange  people  even  of  her  own  age. 
She  faced  us  so  beautifully  afterward,  would 
steal  up  behind  and  pull  our  hairs,  and  bag  our 
caps  and  throw  them  up  onto  the  tops  of  ward- 
robes, and  then,  as  likely  as  not,  climb  up,  throw 
them  down,  and  follow  with  a  jump.  Few  were 
the  tops  of  our  trees  that  did  not  know  her  in 
her  blue  jersey  and  red  cap,  and  stockings  green 
at  the  knees  and  showing  little  white  portions  of 
her.  She  had  a  neck  long  as  a  turkey's  and  feet 

197 


ABRACADABRA 

narrow  as  canoes.  She  was  certainly  going  to  be 
tall.  Though  quite  normal  about  sticking  pins 
into  a  body,  making  the  lives  of  calves  and  dogs 
burdensome,  giving  fizzy  magnesia  to  cats,  fetch- 
ing stray  souls  down  with  a  booby-trap,  and 
other  salutary  pastimes,  she  would  dissolve  into 
tears  and  rush  away  if  anybody  played  Chopin, 
or  caught  and  killed  a  butterfly;  and,  if  one  merely 
shot  a  little  bird  with  a  catapult,  would  dash  up 
and  thump  him.  When  she  fought  she  was  like 
a  tiger-cat,  but  afterward  would  sit  and  shake 
uncontrollably  with  most  dreadful  dry  sobs.  So 
there  was  no  relying  on  her. 

She  could  not  have  been  called  pretty  in  those 
days. 

She  became  fifteen  and  went  to  school.  We 
saw  little  of  her  for  three  years.  At  eighteen  she 
came  home,  and  out.  Then  we  would  meet  her 
at  dances  and  picnics,  skating  and  playing  tennis 
— always  languid,  pale,  dark-eyed;  still  not  quite 
regular  in  her  features,  and  with  angles  not  per- 
fectly covered;  but,  on  the  whole,  like  a  tall  lily 
with  a  dark  centre.  She  was  very  earnest,  too, 
and  beginning  to  be  aesthetic,  given  to  standing 
against  walls,  with  her  dark-brown  eyes  immov- 
ably fixed  on  persons  playing  violins;  given  to 
Russian  linen  and  embroidering  book  covers;  to 

198 


ABRACADABRA 

poetry  and  the  sermons  of  preachers  just  un- 
orthodox enough;  dreamy,  too,  but  puffing  and 
starting  at  things  that  came  too  near.  She  was 
very  attractive. 

Going  to  college,  one  saw  little  more  of  Minna 
till  she  was  twenty-two.  She  was  working  then  at 
a  "Settlement,"  and  looked  unhappy  and  anaemic. 
Two  months  later  we  were  told  she  had  broken 
down.  The  work  was  too  painful;  her  nerves 
had  gone  all  wrong.  She  was  taken  abroad. 

We  did  not  see  her  again  till  she  was  twenty- 
six.  She  was  then  marrying  a  Quaker,  a  hand- 
some, big  fellow  with  reddish  hair,  ten  years  older 
than  herself.  More  like  a  swaying  lily  than  ever 
she  looked  in  her  long  white  veil.  A  tall,  striking 
couple !  The  Quaker  had  warm  eyes,  and  by  the 
way  he  looked  at  her,  one  wondered. 

Another  four  years  had  passed  before  I,  at  all 
events,  saw  much  of  Minna  again.  She  was  now 
thirty,  and  had  three  children,  two  girls  and  a 
boy,  and  was  evidently  soon  to  have  another. 
There  was  a  pathetic  look  in  her  eyes.  They  said 
that  the  Quaker  should  have  been  a  Turk,  for  his 
physique  was  powerful  and  his  principles  extremely 
strict.  His  wife  had  grown  to  have  a  shrinking, 
fagged-out  air,  and  worried  terribly  over  her  in- 
fants. She  was  visibly  unhappy;  had  gone  off, 

199 


ABRACADABRA 

too,  in  looks;  grown  sallow  and  thin-cheeked,  and 
seemed  not  to  care  to  hold  herself  up. 

I  recollect  the  Quaker  coming  in  one  day,  full 
of  health  and  happiness,  and  putting  his  affec- 
tionate hand  on  her  shoulder.  To  me — not  to 
the  Quaker,  from  whom  many  things  were  hid- 
den— it  was  apparent  that  she  flinched,  and  when 
his  back  was  turned  I  saw  in  a  mirror  that  she 
was  actually  trembling  all  over,  and  on  her  face 
an  expression  as  if  she  saw  before  her  suffering 
from  which  she  could  not  possibly  escape.  It  was 
clear  that  the  quivering,  lilylike  creature  had  been 
brought  almost  to  her  last  gasp  by  the  physique 
and  principles  of  that  healthy,  happy  Quaker.  It 
was  quite  painful  to  see  one  for  whom  life  seemed 
so  terribly  too  much. 

She  was,  I  think,  about  thirty-two  when  one 
noticed  how  much  better  she  was  looking.  She 
had  begun  to  fill  out  and  hold  herself  up;  her 
eyes  had  light  in  them  again.  Though  she  was 
more  attractive  than  ever,  and  the  Quaker  had 
abated  no  jot  of  either  principle  or  physique,  she 
had  given  up  quivering  and  starting,  and  had  a 
way  of  looking  tranquilly  through  or  over  him, 
as  if  he  were  not  there,  though  her  amiability  was 
obviously  perfect,  and  from  all  accounts  she  ful- 
filled every  duty  better  than  ever.  She  no  longer 

200 


ABRACADABRA 

worried  over  her  children,  of  whom  there  were 
now  five.  It  was  mysterious.  I  can  only  de- 
scribe the  impression  she  made  by  saying  that 
she  seemed  in  a  sort  of  trance,  seeing  and  listen- 
ing to  something  far  away.  There  was  a  curious 
intentness  in  her  eyes,  and  her  voice  had  acquired 
a  slight  but  not  unpleasing  drawl,  as  though  what 
she  was  talking  of  had  little  reality.  Every  after- 
noon from  three  to  four  she  was  invisible. 

Having  in  those  days  a  certain  interest  in  psy- 
chology, one  used  to  concern  oneself  to  account 
for  the  extraordinary  change  in  her  that  was  be- 
coming more  marked  every  year.  By  the  time 
she  was  thirty-five  it  really  seemed  impossible  that 
she  could  ever  have  been  a  sensitive,  high-strung 
creature,  hiding  hi  the  bathroom,  thumping  us 
for  killing  butterflies,  sobbing  afterward  so  un- 
controllably; suffering  such  tortures  from  the 
"Settlement,"  and  the  Quaker,  and  her  children, 
whose  ailments  and  troubles  she  now  supported 
with  an  equanimity  which  any  one,  seeing  her  for 
the  first  time,  would  surely  have  mistaken  for 
callousness.  And  all  the  time  she  was  putting  on 
flesh  without,  however,  losing  her  figure.  Indeed, 
in  those  days  she  approached  corporeal  perfection. 

And  at  last  one  afternoon  I  learned  the  reason. 

She  no  longer  believed  she  had  a  body ! 
201 


ABRACADABRA 

She  told  me  so,  almost  with  tears  of  earnest- 
ness. And  when  I  pointed  out  to  her  humbly 
that  she  had  never  had  more,  she  insisted  that  I 
saw  nothing  really  sitting  there  except  the  serene 
and  healthy  condition  of  her  spirit.  Long  she 
talked  to  me  that  afternoon,  explaining  again  and 
again,  in  her  slightly  drawling  voice,  that  she 
could  never  have  gone  on  but  for  this  faith;  and 
how  comforting  and  uplifting  it  was,  so  that  no 
one  who  lacked  it  could  be  really  happy!  Every 
afternoon — she  told  me — from  three  to  four  she 
"held"  that  idea  of  "no  body." 

This  was  all  so  startling  to  me  that  I  went 
away  and  thought  it  over.  Next  day  I  came 
back  and  said  that  I  did  not  see  how  it  could  be 
much  good  to  her  to  have  no  body,  so  long  as 
other  people  still  had  theirs;  since  it  was  their 
bodies,  not  hers,  which  had  caused  her  pain  and 
grief. 

"But,  of  course,"  she  said,  "they  haven't." 

I  had  just  met  the  Quaker  coming  in  from  golf, 
and  could  only  murmur: 

"Is  that  really  so?" 

"I  couldn't  bear,  now,"  she  said,  "to  think 
they  had." 

"Then,  do  you  really  mean,  Minna,  that  when 
they  are  there  they  are  not  there?" 

202 


ABRACADABRA 

"Yes !"    And  her  eyes  shone. 

I  thought  of  her  eldest  boy,  who  happened  to 
be  ill  with  mumps. 

"What,  then,  is  Willy's  mumps,"  I  said,  "if  not 
an  affection  of  the  fleshy  tissue  of  his  cheeks  and 
neck?  Why  should  he  cry  with  pain,  and  why 
should  he  look  so  horrid?" 

She  frowned,  as  if  reflecting  hard. 

"When  you  came  in,"  she  said,  "I'd  just  been 
holding  the  thought  that  he  has  no  body,  and  I 
don't — I  really  don't  feel  any  longer  that  he  has 
mumps.  So  I  don't  worry.  And  that's  splendid 
both  for  him  and  me." 

I  saw  that  it  was  splendid  for  her;  but  how  was 
it  splendid  for  him  ?  I  did  not  ask,  however,  be- 
cause she  looked  so  earnest  and  uplifted,  and  I  was 
afraid  of  seeming  unkind. 

The  next  day  I  came  back  again,  and  said: 

"I've  been  thinking  over  your  faith,  Minna. 
Candidly,  I've  never  seen  any  one  improve  so 
amazingly  in  health  and  looks  since  you've  had 
it.  But  what  I've  been  wondering  is,  whether 
it's  in  the  nature  of  fresh  air,  hard  work,  and 
plain  living,  or  in  the  nature  of  a  drug  or  anodyne. 
Whether  it's  prevention,  or  cure.  In  fact,  whether 
you  could  hold  it,  or  ever  have  held  it,  unless  you 
had  been  sick  before  you  held  it?" 

203 


ABRACADABRA 

She  evidently  did  not  grasp  my  meaning.  I 
could,  of  course,  have  made  it  plain  enough  by 
saying:  "Suppose  you  had  not  been  a  self-con- 
scious, self-absorbed,  high-strung,  ansemic  girl, 
like  so  many  nowadays,  quivering  at  life  and 
Quakers  with  strong  physique  and  principles; 
suppose  you  had  been  an  Italian  peasant  woman 
or  an  English  cottage  lass,  obliged  to  work  and 
think  of  others  all  her  time;  suppose,  in  a  word, 
you  had  not  had  the  chance  to  be  so  desperately 
sensitive  and  conscious  of  your  body — do  you 
think  you  would  ever  have  felt  the  necessity  for 
becoming  unconscious  of  it?"  But  she  looked  so 
serene  and  puzzled,  so  corporeally  charming  on 
her  sofa,  that  I  hadn't  the  heart  to  put  it  thus 
brutally;  and  I  merely  said: 

"Do  tell  me  how  the  idea  first  came  to 
you?" 

"It  was  put  there.  It  could  never  have  come 
of  its  own  accord." 

"No  doubt;  but  exactly  when?" 

She  grew  rather  pink. 

"It  was  one  evening  when  Willy — he  was  only 
four  then — had  been  very  naughty,  and  Tom" 
(this  was  the  Quaker)  "insisted  on  my  whipping 
him.  I  was  obliged  to,  you  see,  for  fear  he  would 
do  it  himself.  Poor  Willy  cried  so  that  I  was 

204 


ABRACADABRA 

simply  in  despair.  It  hurt  me  awfully.  I  re- 
member thinking:  'Ah!  but  it's  not  really  me; 
not  me — not  my  arm/  It  seemed  to  me  that 
there  was  a  dreadful  unreality  about  myself;  that 
I  was  not  really  doing  it,  and  so  I  surely  could 
not  be  hurting  him.  It  was  such  a  comfort — 
and  I  wanted  comfort." 

I  felt  the  sacredness  and  the  pathos  of  that;  I 
felt,  too,  that  her  despair,  before  that  comfort 
came,  had  been  her  farewell  to  truth;  but  I  would 
not  for  the  world  have  said  that,  nor  asked  what 
Willy's  tears  had  really  been,  if  not  real  tears. 

"Yes,"  I  murmured;  "and  after  that?" 

"After  that — I  tried  every  day,  and  gradually 
the  whole  beauty  of  it  came  to  me — because,  you 
know,  there  are  so  many  things  to  fret  one,  and 
it's  so  splendid  to  feel  uplifted  above  it  all." 

They  tell  me  the  morphia  habit  is  wonderful! 
But  I  only  said: 

"And  so  you  really  never  suffer  now?" 

"Oh!"  she  answered,  "I  often  have  the  begin- 
nings; but  I  just  hold  that  thought  and — it  goes. 
I  do  wish — I  do  wish  you  would  try !" 

"Yes,  yes,"  I  murmured;  "yes,  yes!"  She 
looked  so  pathetically  earnest  and  as  if  she  would 
be  so  disappointed.  "But  just  one  thing:  Don't 
you  ever  feel  that  the  knowledge  that  people  have 

205 


ABRACADABRA 

no  bodies  and  don't  really  suffer" — and  there  I 
stopped.  I  had  meant  to  add — 'blunts  sympathy 
and  dries  up  the  springs  of  fellow-feeling  from 
which  all  kindly  action  comes?'  But  I  hadn't 
the  heart. 

"Oh!  do  put  any  questions  to  me!"  she  said. 
"You  can't  shake  my  faith!  It's  religion  with 
me,  you  know." 

"You  certainly  seem  fitter  and  stronger  every 
day.  I  quite  understand  that  you're  being  saved 
by  it.  And  that's  the  essence  of  religion,  isn't  it  ?  " 

She  drew  herself  up  and  smiled.  "Tom  says 
I'm  getting  fat!" 

I  looked  at  her.  I  must  say  that,  for  one  who 
had  no  body,  she  was  superb. 

After  that  I  again  left  London  and  did  not  see 
her  for  two  years. 

A  few  days  after  my  return  I  asked  after  her 
at  my  sister's. 

"Oh!  haven't  you  heard?  The  most  dreadful 
tragedy  happened  there  six  weeks  ago.  Kitty 
and  Willy"  (they  were  the  two  eldest  children) 
"were  run  over  by  a  motor;  poor  little  Kitty 
was  killed  on  the  spot,  and  Willy  will  be  lame 
for  life,  they  say." 

Thinking  of  Kitty  blotted  out  like  that — a  little 
thing  all  shyness,  sensibility,  and  pranks,  just  as 

206 


ABRACADABRA 

Minna  had  been  at  her  age — I  could  scarcely  ask: 
"How  does  poor  Minna  take  it?" 

My  sister  wrinkled  her  brows. 

"I  was  there/'  she  said,  "when  they  brought 
the  children  in.  It  was  awful  to  see  Tom — he 
broke  down  utterly.  He's  been  quite  changed 


ever  since." 


"But  Minna?" 

"  Minna — yes.  I  shall  never  forget  the  expres- 
sion of  her  face  that  first  minute.  It  reminded 
me  of — I  don't  know  what — like  nerves  moving 
under  the  skin.  Dreadful !  And  then,  ten  min- 
utes later,  it  was  quite  calm ;  you'd  have  thought 
nothing  had  happened.  She's  very  wonderful. 
I've  watched  her  since,  and  I  don't — I  really  don't 
believe  she  feels  it !" 

"How  is  she  looking?" 

"Oh!  just  the  same — very  well  and  handsome. 
Rather  too  fat." 

It  was  with  very  curious  feelings  that  I  went 
next  day  to  see  Minna.  Truly  she  looked  mag- 
nificent in  her  black  clothes.  Her  curves  had 
become  ampler,  her  complexion  deeper,  perhaps  a 
little  coarse,  and  her  drawl  was  more  pronounced. 
Her  husband  came  in  while  I  was  there.  The 
poor  man  was  indeed  a  changed  Quaker.  He 
seemed  to  have  shrivelled.  When  she  put  her 

207 


ABRACADABRA 

hand  on  his  shoulder,  I  noticed  with  surprise 
that  he  jibbed  away  and  seemed  to  avoid  the 
gaze  of  her  rather  short-sighted,  beautiful  brown 
eyes  that  had  grown  appreciably  warmer.  It 
was  strange  indeed — his  body  had  become  so 
meagre  and  hers  had  so  splendidly  increased! 
We  made  no  mention  of  the  tragedy 'while  he  was 
there,  but  when  he  had  left  us  I  hazarded  the 
question : 

"How  is  poor  little  Willy?" 

Her  eyes  shone,  and  she  said,  with  a  sort  of 
beautiful  earnestness : 

"You  mustn't  call  him  that.  He's  not  a  bit 
unhappy.  We  hold  the  thought  together.  It's 
coming  wonderfully !" 

In  a  sudden  outburst  of  sympathy  I  said: 

"I'm  so  sorry.    It  must  be  terrible  for  you  all." 

Her  brow  contracted  just  a  little. 

"Yes!  I  can't  get  Tom — if  only  he  would  see 
that  it's  nothing,  really — that  there's  no  such 
thing  as  the  body.  He's  simply  wearing  nun- 
self  away;  he's  grown  quite  thin;  he's — "  She 
stopped.  And  there  rose  up  in  me  a  kind  of 
venom,  as  if  I  felt  that  she  was  about  to  say 
' — no  longer  fit  to  be  my  mate.'  And,  trying  to 
keep  that  feeling  out  of  my  eyes,  I  looked  at  the 
magnificent  creature.  How  marvellously  she  had 

208 


ABRACADABRA 

flourished  under  the  spell  of  her  creed!  How 
beautifully  preserved  and  encased  against  the 
feelings  of  this  life  she  had  become !  How  grandly 
she  had  cured  her  sensitive  and  neurasthenic  girl- 
hood! How  nobly,  against  the  disease  of  self- 
consciousness  and  self-absorption,  she  had  put  on 
the  armour  of  a  subtler  and  deeper  self-absorption ! 
And  suddenly  I  pitied  or  I  envied  her — Ah! 
which  ?  For,  to  achieve  immunity  from  her  own 
suffering,  I  perceived  that  for  the  suffering  of 
others  she  had  become  incapable  of  caring  two 
brass  buttons. 


209 


HATHOR:  A  MEMORY 

Hathor  of  the  old  Egyptians!  Divine  cow, 
with  the  mild,  lustrous  eyes,  the  proud  and  gentle 
step;  immortally  desirable,  ever  fruitful;  veiled 
and  radiant  with  that  soft  devotional  glow  which 
wraps  all  the  greatest  works  of  art,  causing  all 
who  behold  to  feel  a  thrill  and  sweetness,  a  long- 
ing to  put  out  hands  and  worship.  Far  from 
earthly  lust;  divine  cow  with  the  crescent  horns 
— Hathor  of  the  old  Egyptians !  .  .  . 

In  camp  at  Sennoures  of  the  Fayoum  it  has 
fallen  dark,  and  dinner  is  over  when  the  dancer 
summoned  by  Mahmoud  Ibrahim  arrives.  Pretty 
she  is  as  the  dusk,  as  a  tiger-cat,  a  firefly,  a  flower 
of  the  hibiscus,  her  skin  but  little  darker  than 
our  own;  her  eyes  clear  agate-green,  her  teeth 
whiter  than  milk,  a  gold  crescent  through  her  right 
nostril,  and  her  fine  chin  blue  from  tattooing. 
Quite  a  woman  of  the  world,  too,  in  her  greetings. 

In  the  tent  made  holy  by  embroidered  texts 
from  the  Koran,  ourselves  and  Hallilah  (parent 
of  all  the  gods);  Mahmoud  Ibrahim  in  drago- 

211 


HATHOR:  A  MEMORY 

man's  best  robes;  Sadik  in  white  waiter's  dress; 
and  the  ten  Arabs  in  black  night-cloaks — camel- 
boy  "Daisy"  with  his  queer  child-voice  and  his 
quaint  ear-wrappings;  Mabrouk,  imp  with  a  past 
and  a  future;  dusky,  sweet-tempered  "Comedy"; 
the  holy  Ahmet,  more  excited  than  he  should  be; 
green  camel-boy  and  white  camel-boy,  all  teeth 
and  expectation;  Karim,  smiling;  and  the  three 
dark,  solemn  camel-men  who  play  the  pipes,  for 
once  in  animation:  fifteen  of  us  to  sit,  kneel, 
crouch,  and  wait;  only  cook,  and  the  watchman 
— ah !  and  Samara — absent. 

And  soon  our  dancer  comes  in  again,  with  her 
drummer,  and  her  brother — whose  agate  eyes  are 
finer  than  her  own — to  pipe  for  her.  She  has  taken 
off  her  cloak  now,  and  is  clothed  in  beads  and  net- 
ting, with  bare  waist,  and  dark,  heavy  skirt. 
Standing  by  the  tent-pole  she  looks  slowly  round 
at  us;  then,  lifting  her  upper  lip  square  above  her 
teeth  and  curling  her  tongue,  begins  to  sing,  show- 
ing us  the  very  back  of  her  mouth,  and  passing 
through  her  short  straight  nose  tones  like  the 
clapping  together  of  metal  discs.  And  while  she 
sings  she  moves  slowly  round,  with  wide-stretched 
arms,  and  hands  clinking  little  bells  that  make 
the  memory  of  castanets  seem  vulgar. 

"She  is  a  good  one,  this,"  says  Mahmoud 
Ibrahim. 

212 


HATHOR:  A  MEMORY 

And  now  she  ceases  to  sing,  and  begins  to 
dance.  She  makes  but  little  movement  with  her 
feet,  protruding  her  over-developed  middle  vio- 
lently, rhythmically,  and  passing  her  ardent  gaze 
from  face  to  face.  And  as  she  writhes  before 
them  each  Arab  visage  around  the  tent  becomes 
all  teeth  and  eyes.  Out  beyond  the  dark  excite- 
ment of  those  faces  the  peaceful  sky  is  glittering 
with  stars;  the  clear-cut  palm-trees,  under  a  moon 
still  crescent,  shiver  in  the  wind.  And  out  there 
Samara,  our  tall,  gaunt  young  camel-man,  stalks 
up  and  down,  his  eyes  fixed  on  the  ground.  That 
dance,  what  is  it,  but  the  crudest  love-making  to 
us  all  here  in  the  warm  tent? 

"She  is  nearly  a  top-hole  one,  this,"  says  Mah- 
moud  Ibrahim. 

And  suddenly  we  see  Samara  crouching  with 
the  others  in  the  opening  of  the  tent.  The  only 
one  who  does  not  smile,  he  watches  her,  holding 
his  thin  dark  face  in  his  thin  dark  hand;  then  lo ! 
as  though  he  can  bear  no  more  of  such  attraction, 
he  leaps  up,  and  again  begins  hovering  outside, 
like  a  flame  in  the  wind. 

But  she — she  dances  on,  writhing,  protruding 
her  middle,  clinking  her  bells.  And  all  the  time 
the  imp  Mabrouk  and  the  camel-men  laugh,  and 
gurgle  their  delight,  and  stretch  out  then-  arms 
toward  her;  until  at  last  the  holy  Ahmet,  unable 

213 


HATHOR:  A  MEMORY 

to  control  emotion,  puts  up  his  hands  about  her 
waist.  Ah!  What  is  this  that  comes  swooping 
down,  flinging  at  him  fiery  words,  and  springing 
back  into  the  night? 

"See  Samara!"  says  Mahmoud  Ibrahim;  "he 
is  jealous.  'Come  over  here!'  My  lord!  She 
is  a  fine  one!" 

But  at  last  she  has  sung  all  her  songs,  danced 
all  her  dances,  even  the  Sleep  one,  drunk  all  the 
wine,  smoked  the  last  cigarette,  finished  the  Turk- 
ish Delight.  So  we  thank  and  leave  her. 

When  the  camp  is  quiet  I  come  out  to  watch 
the  circle  of  the  palm-trees  under  Hathor's  cres- 
cent horns,  to  listen  to  the  "chump-chump"  of 
the  camels,  to  the  soft  talk  passing  from  dark 
figures  crouching  by  the  watch-fire.  And  Mah- 
moud Ibrahim  comes  up  to  me. 

"Most  of  the  men  are  gone  to  the  village — the 
holy  Ahmet  and  all !  The  fools,  they  get  excited. 
Certainly  she  is  a  good  one;  pretty,  but  too  thin !" 
He  sighs,  and  looks  up  at  the  stars.  "It  was  in 
camp  here  ten  years  ago,  we  had  the  best  I  ever 
saw.  I  went  all  the  way  to  Cairo  to  fetch  her; 
we  paid  her  fifteen  pounds.  Ah !  she  was  beau- 
tiful; and  I  was  very  young.  After  the  dance 
was  over  I  went  to  her;  I  was  trembling,  I  cer- 
tainly was  trembling.  She  was  pretty  as  a  flower. 

214 


HATHOR:  A  MEMORY 

I  asked  her  to  speak  to  me  just  five  minutes;  but 
she  looked  at  me — she  certainly  looked  at  me  as 
if  I  was  not  there.  I  had  not  much  money  then, 
you  see.  And  last  week  in  Cairo  I  met  her  in  the 
street.  I  would  never  have  known  her — never. 
But  she  said  to  me:  'Will  you  not  speak  to  me? 
Do  you  not  remember  years  ago  how  I  came,  to 
dance  at  your  camp  in  the  Fayoum  ? '  I  remem- 
bered her  then;  we  paid  her  fifteen  pounds.  She 
was  not  proud  any  more!"  Mahmoud  Ibrahim 
shakes  his  comely  head.  "She  certainly  is  hid- 
jeous  now;  and  she  cried,  poor  woman,  she  cried !" 

Save  for  the  camels  chumping  there  is  silence; 
beneath  the  palm-trees  we  see  a  tall  black  figure 
standing  beneath  the  crescent  of  the  moon — 
Flame  in  the  wind — for  once  quite  still ! 

"Look!"  says  Mahmoud  Ibrahim:  "Samara! 
This  one  would  not  have  anything  to  say  to  him. 
He  has  not  much  money,  you  see !" 

Once  more  that  night  I  come  out  of  my  tent. 
The  men  are  sleeping,  huddled  with  the  silent 
camels  in  dark  clumps  on  the  grey  sand.  The 
watchman  sleeps  over  all.  Even  the  wind  sleeps; 
and  the  crescent  moon  is  passing  down.  .  .  . 

Ah!  Hathor!  Love  and  Beauty!  Far  from 
earthly  lust,  immortal  cow  with  the  soft,  lustrous 
eyes,  and  horns  like  the  crescent  moon ! 

215 


SEKHET:    A   DREAM 

Sekhet !  She  who  devours  the  evil  souls  in  the 
underworld!  She  with  the  dark  head  of  a  lion- 
ess and  the  dark  body  of  a  naked  woman;  one 
leg  striding,  hands  clenched  to  her  sides,  and  eyes, 
not  woman's  and  not  lion's,  staring  into  the  dark- 
ness, looking  for  her  next  meal !  There  she  stands 
by  day,  by  night,  ever  in  the  blackness,  watching ! 
No  wonder  the  simple  folk  think  she  eats  their 
children ! 

It  was  after  seeing  Sekhet  in  her  dim  cell  at 
Karnak  that  I  dreamed.  .  .  . 

The  Five  Judges  of  the  dead  were  sitting  in  a 
lemon  grove  outside  the  walls  of  Karnak.  And 
where  the  lemon  grove  ended,  stood  we — the  dead 
— waiting  to  come  up  for  judgment — thousands 
on  thousands  of  us,  stretching  away  in  the  Egyp- 
tian dust,  over  the  plain  of  Thebes.  The  five 
judges  sat  in  a  row.  Sombor,  that  little  judicial, 
lean  one,  with  long,  parchmenty,  sunken  face  and 
fiery  dark  slits  of  eyes,  held  in  his  thin  fingers  a 
flower  of  the  papyrus.  Diarnak,  tall,  and  sol- 

217 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

dierly,  sat  upright,  never  moving,  his  grave  visage 
clothed  in  a  peaked  beard,  while  a  bat,  in  the 
sunlight,  flitted  round  his  head.  Membron,  whose 
broad  and  sacerdotal  face  shone  as  if  he  anointed 
it  at  night,  now  smiled  and  now  was  solemn, 
balancing  in  one  hand  a  piece  of  gold,  in  the 
other  a  little  image.  Marrosquin,  the  cultured, 
with  his  paunchy  curves,  having  a  face  lined, 
pursy,  subtle,  stroked  a  cat  curled  up  on  his 
rounded  knees.  Buttah,  that  short  and  red-faced 
man  of  business,  with  his  grey  beard,  his  little, 
piggy  eyes,  his  large  gold  signet-ring,  seemed 
slumbering. 

And  Sombor  spoke:  "My  brothers,  Sekhet 
waits!" 

Then  I  saw  that  the  first  of  us  already  stood 
before  them — a  young  man,  tall,  and  of  an 
amiable,  weak  countenance.  On  his  lips,  which 
dribbled  a  light  froth,  faint  curly  smiles  were 
wandering;  and  his  tragic  eyes  watered  freely  in 
the  sunlight. 

"Here,  sirs,"  he  said.    And  thus  they  spoke. 

SOMBOK.  Your  name?  Varhet?  You  died  last 
night?  Speak  the  truth,  which  we  know  al- 
ready. Drink  ? 

VARHET.  Yes,  sirs. 

218 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

DIARNAK.  How  many  times  convicted  ? 
VARHET.  Never,  sirs.    There  was  no  policeman 

in  my  village. 

DIARNAK.  Name  of  village? 
BUTTAH.   Look   'ere,   Diarnak!     Keep    to    the 

point!    Now,  just  tell  us  why  you  took  to 

drink,  young  man. 
VARHET.  I  hardly  know,  sirs.    It  made  things 

seem  brighter. 
BUTTAH.  Well,  I  like  a  drop  o'  Scotch  as  much 

as  any  one — not  to  exceed.    Go  on,  young 

man. 
VARHET.  Yes,  sir.    The  more  I  drank  the  less 

happy  I  was;   and  the  less  happy  I  was  the 

more  I  drank. 
BUTTAH.   I  quite  understand.    You  wanted  to 

have  an  'appy  time.    I  do  myself;  an'  I  may 

as  well  say  that,  what  with  hard  work,  and 

a  game  o'  skittles,  and  a  little  religious  life, 

I'm  as  jolly  as  most. 
VARHET  (eagerly).  Yes,  sirs;  that  was  it.    I  only 

wished  myself  and  everybody  happy.    And 

when  I  found  that  I  could  not  be,  I  took  my 

gun  and  shot  myself. 
BUTTAH.  Naow !    You  shouldn't  'ave  done  that ! 

That  was  extravagant.    If  there's  one  thing  I 

can't  pass  over,  it's  extravagance. 
219 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

SOMBOR.  You  shot  yourself.    Ha ! 

MARROSQUIN.  So  violent!  Why  not  a  softer 
death,  Varhet? 

VARHET.  Sir,  I  lived  in  a  very  simple  village. 

MEMBRON.  You  destroyed  the  temple  of  your 
body? 

VARHET.  Sir,  it  was  getting  worse  and  worse, 
doing  no  good  to  me  or  any  one;  I  thought 

DIARNAK.  A  soldier  the  less  in  the  world!  Be- 
yond forgiveness. 

SOMBOR.  Have  you  any  intelligible  defence,  Var- 
het? 

VARHET.  Sirs,  since  I  died,  I've  thought  somehow, 
it  might  have  saved  me  if  I  could  have  de- 
scribed happiness,  when  I  was  feeling  miser- 
able. 

MARROSQUIN.  You  mean,  you  might  have  made 
a  romantic  writer?  Very  interesting !  I  have 
always  felt  that  the  foundation  of  optimism  in 
art  is  the  ill  health  or  misery  of  the  artist. 

BUTTAH.  Here !    Keep  to  the  point,  Marrosquin. 

SOMBOR.  Vote !    Those  for  Sekhet  ? 

MARROSQUIN.  One  moment!  By  his  own  con- 
fession this  man  has  a  touch  of  the  artist  in 
him.  I  think  we  might — ! 

SOMBOR.  Marrosquin!  If  this  unhappy  drunk- 
ard is  allowed  to  take  his  life  with  impunity, 
220 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

vast  numbers  of  men  who  are  not  happy  will 
do  the  same.  And  who  are  these  unhappy 
ones?  Those  in  judging  whom  I  hold  my 
office;  who  make  Diarnak's  soldiers;  provide 
Membron  with  the  best  opportunities  for  his 
discourses;  minister  to  your  cultured  com- 
fort, Marrosquin;  and  create  the  fortune  of 
Buttah,  backbone  of  his  country.  These  men 
who  would  rashly  kill  themselves  are  the  very 
foundations  of  society.  Let  us  have  no  more 
of  this.  Vote!  For  Sekhet?  All,  save  Mar- 
rosquin. Take  him  down ! 

Smiling,  and  looking  from  face  to  face  with 
his  watery,  tragic  eyes,  Varhet  was  placed  be- 
neath the  largest  lemon-tree.  And  the  second 
of  us  stepped  out.  This  man  was  very  burnt 
and  dirty — about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  black 
eyes  peering  out  of  matted  hair  and  beard,  and 
his  clothes  so  forlorn  and  patched  that  he  looked 
like  nothing  but  a  mop  made  out  of  ends  of 
cloth. 

DIARNAK.  Name?    Nam?    Speak,  Nain! 
NAIN.  I  am  a  tramp. 
DIARNAK.  That  we  see. 
NAIN.  I  died  an  hour  ago. 

221 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

DIAKNAK.  What  of? 

NAIN.  Not  bein'  moved  on. 

BUTTAH.  What!    How's  that? 

NAIN.  They  took  an'  kept  me  in  one  place.    I 

stuck  it  a  month.    Then  I  got  the  Wander- 
lust an'  slid  out  for  good. 
DIAKNAK.  What  is  the  meaning  of  these  clothes, 

then?    The  regulations 

NAIN.  I  arst  'em  to  give  me  my  own  clothes  to 

die  in;  an'  they  'ad  mercy  on  me. 
MEMBKON.  While  respecting  the  liberty  of  the 

subject,  Society  is  bound  to  restrain  those 

whom  it  finds  inconvenient. 
MARROSQUIN.  He  smells  atr-rocious ! 
SOMBOR.  You  are,  then,  one  of  those  miserable 

scoundrels  who  won't  work. 
NAIN.  Well,  what  then? 
SOMBOR.  There  is  no   sentence   too   severe  for 

you. 

DIARNAK.  How  is  it  you  did  not  become  a  soldier  ? 
BUTTAH.  Diarnak,  don't  insult  the  flag!     My 

man,  you're  an  extravagant  feller.    In  my 

opinion  you  deserve  all  you'll  get.    You  were 

born  tired. 
NAIN.  I  was. 
DIARNAK.  Any  defence  ? 

222 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

NAIN.  None,  but  this  here  Wanderlust. 

SOMBOR.  Vote! 

MARROSQUIN.  One  moment!  This  is  really  in- 
teresting. Wanderlust!  My  good  man — de- 
scribe it  for  us ! 

NAIN.  It's  like  this,  as  you  might  say.  There 
you  are,  workin'  the  bloomin'  handle,  or  layin' 
the  bloomin'  bricks,  or  brushin'  the  bloomin' 
street,  same  as  you  'ave  for  a  month;  and, 
suddenly,  you  gets  a  feelin'  'ere.  An'  you  says 
to  yourself:  What  oh!  An' you  goes  on  turnin' 
the  bloomin'  'andle  or  layin'  the  bloomin' 
bricks.  But  next  day  you  slides  out. 

MARROSQUIN.  My  dear  good  man,  that  is  inar- 
ticulate. What — what,  exactly,  do  you  feel? 

NAIN.  Gov'nor,  as  you  presses  me,  I  should  say 
it  was  like  catchin'  a  smell  o'  rain  in  a  dry 
country.  After  that  you  can't  stick  no  more 
dry  country,  till  next  time. 

MARROSQUIN.  Ah!  now — I  understand.  Very 
pictur-resque !  The  touch  of  the  artist  there. 
I  almost  think  we  might 

DIARNAK.  Marrosquin !  By  my  new  regulations 
this  man  was  to  stay  and  do  steady  work  in 
one  place.  He  has  died  and  broken  them. 
If  we  let  him  off,  my  new  regulations  too  are 
dead. 

223 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

MARROSQUIN.  Still — the  Wanderlust!    So  poetic ! 

BUTTAH.  I  never  Jad  it  myself ! 

SOMBOR.  The  majority  of  men  are  disinclined  to 
work;  if  this  man  is  not  condemned,  the  ma- 
jority of  men  will  know  they  need  not  work. 

MEMBRON.  We  must  face  facts,  but  not  be  cyn- 
ical. I  personally  am  inclined  to  work;  with 
the  doubtful  exception  of  Marrosquin,  we  are 
all  inclined  to  work. 

DIARNAK.  We  govern,  however. 

SOMBOR.  Yes;  we  work  at  what  we  like.  Most 
men  do  not. 

MARROSQUIN.  True;  still,  it  seems  hard 

BUTTAH.  Marrosquin,  if  you'd  been  brought  up 
to  industry  as  I  was,  you'd  'ave  no  patience 
with  these  jokers  who  can't  stick  their  jobs, 
nohow. 

MARROSQUIN.  Heaven  forbid ! 

DIARNAK.  Vote!  For  Sekhet?  All,  but  Marros- 
quin. Remove  him ! 

Nain  was  placed  beneath  the  lemon-tree,  and 
the  third  of  us  stepped  forth.  This  was  a  young 
woman  of  a  good  height  and  figure,  in  a  dress 
open  at  the  neck,  and  not  long  enough  to  hide 
her  ankles.  Her  short,  broad  face,  with  its  pale 
hair,  was  pretty  and  amiable;  but  her  bistre- 

224 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

circled  eyes  of  forget-me-not  blue  were  tragic 
and  furtive,  passing  from  countenance  to  counte- 
nance with  a  frightened  caress. 

MEMBRON.  Your  name  ?  Talete !  You  need  not 
tell  us  what  you  are.  Any  palliating  circum- 
stances we  shall  consider.  While  noting  the 
deadliness  of  your  sin,  we  must  be  charitable. 
Speak ! 

TALETE.  Whatever  I've  done,  sir,  please,  a  man's 
done  too. 

SOMBOR.  You  dare  say  that.    Vote ! 

BUTTAH.  Now,  now,  Sombor;  you're  too  quick 
with  the  little  girl.  Give  it  tongue,  my  dear. 
How  did  you  come  to  die? 

TALETE.  Of  fright. 

MARROSQUIN.  God  bless  me ! 

TALETE.  Yes,  sir.  The  police  do  drop  on  us  so 
lately — a  girl's  got  no  chance.  My  nerves 
aren't  what  they  were;  and  the  day  before 
yesterday,  when  they  ran  me  in  again,  I  died. 

BUTTAH.  You  oughtn't  to  have  done  that !  How 
old  are  you? 

TALETE.  Twenty-four. 

BUTTAH.  T't,  ft !    Very  early — very  early ! 

MEMBRON.  The  reward  of  sin  is  unquestionably 
death. 

225 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

SOMBOR.  One  source  of  evil  the  less. 

DIARNAK.  You  know  the  law? 

TALETE.  Yes,  sir.  Men  has  to  have  girls  like 
me,  so  the  law  must  run  us  in,  for  fear  people 
might  say  men  favoured  a  gay  life. 

MARROSQUIN.  It  is  monstr-rous  that  men,  who 
make  the  law,  should  discriminate  in  favour  of 
themselves. 

DIARNAK.  The  streets  must  be  kept  in  order. 

BUTTAH.  Now,  my  dear,  what  made  you  take  to 
this  lif e  ?  It's  a  wasteful  way  of  goin'  on,  at 
the  best. 

TALETE.  If  you  please,  I  married  when  I  was  six- 
teen; we  didn't  get  on;  and  I  met  somebody 
I  thought  I  could  love  properly,  but  I  couldn't; 
then  I  met  another  I  was  sure  was  right,  and 
he  wasn't;  after  that  I  didn't  care  no  more 
so  much;  but,  though  I  took  them  all  for  a 
living,  I  was  always  looking  for  him 

MARROSQUIN.  R-remarkable !  The  pursuit  of  per- 
fection! This  girl  is  an  artist.  I  think  we 
might 

MEMBRON.  My  brethren !    Vote ! 

SOMBOR.  Sekhet! 

BUTTAH.  It  goes  against  the  grain;  me  an'  Mrs. 
Buttah's  got  daughters.    Let  her  off,  I  say. 
226 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

TALETE.  Yes,  sir;  and  I've  never  given  any  man 
away. 

DIARNAK.  Sekhet! 

MARROSQUIN.  She  is  pathetic.  I  am  not  pre- 
pared  

MEMBRON.  Two  votes  to  two!  Determining 
judgment — let  me  review  this  matter.  If  we 
forgive  this  fallen  daughter,  as  in  accordance 
with  strict  principle,  without  entering  for  the 
moment  on  textual  criticism,  we  possibly  ought, 
with  what  shall  we  be  faced?  With  the  loss 
of  the  power  to  say  to  the  people:  Sin  at  the 
peril  of  your  souls !  This,  my  brethren,  is  ex- 
tremely dangerous.  We  should  always  re- 
member that  the  heart  of  our  creed  is  sym- 
pathy and  compassion,  but  we  must  gravely 
distrust  sentiment,  and  mercy.  Spiritually 
compelled  to  remark  that  I  do  not  condemn 
her,  I  am  not  prepared  to  forego  my  power  to 
give  judgment.  For,  brethren,  we  should  ever 
bear  in  mind  that  if  we  did  not  condemn,  per- 
haps no  one  would;  or  that  if,  by  chance,  they 
did,  it  would  be  derogatory  to  the  dignity 
of  us,  who  are  acknowledged  by  ourselves  to 
be  the  arbiters  of  morality.  While,  therefore, 
giving  the  utmost  weight  to  compassion,  I 
regard  it  as  my  professional  duty  to  say: 
227 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

Sekhet !    The  motion  is  carried  by  three  votes 
to  two.    Take  her  down ! 

And,  as  Talete  went,  I  noticed  that  a  dove 
perched  on  her  shoulder,  and  sat  there  cooing; 
and  though  her  eyes  never  ceased  to  furtively 
implore  her  judges,  she  rubbed  her  cheek  against 
the  bird.  He  who  had  taken  her  place  was  a 
young  man  with  bright  eyes,  a  little  black  mous- 
tache which  he  continually  twisted,  and  a  per- 
fectly straight  back  to  his  dark  head. 

MARROSQUIN.  Your  name?    Arva?    Quite!   You 

passed  away  from  us  in  what  manner? 
ARVA.  Flying. 
MARROSQUIN.  Professional? 
ARVA.  Not  exactly.    I'd  got  through  the  rest. 
MARROSQUIN.  Yes,  yes.    Had  you  tried  morphia, 

and  Monte  Carlo  ? 
ARVA.  Both.    And  racing. 
MARROSQUIN.  I  see;  confirmed  case.    I  know  so 

many  nowadays:    "Ludum  insolentem  ludere 

pertinax." — Yes,  yes! 
BUTTAH.  So  far  as  I  twig,  the  young  man's  a 

gambler.    And  let  me  tell  him  at  once  he's 

come  to  the  wrong  shop  here.    There's  too 

much  of  this  gambling  goes  on. 
228 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

MARROSQUIN.  Still,  we  should  try  and  put  our- 
selves in  his  position.  I  myself  have  no  temp- 
tation that  way. 

SOMBOR.  You  haven't  the  pluck ! 

MARROSQUIN.  That  r-remark  is  uncalled  for.  (To 
ARVA.)  Tell  us  why  you  have  run  through 
everything  like  this. 

DIARNAK.  And  be  brief. 

ARVA.  I  was  bora  at  a  good  pace. 

MARROSQUIN.  A  charming  phrase.  This  young 
man  is  an  artist. 

ARVA.  That,  and  the  papers. 

MEMBRON.  While  deploring  the  tendency  of  the 
press  to  snippets  and  sensationalism,  we  must 
do  justice  to  some  excellent  qualities. 

BUTTAH.  I  can  forgive  a  lot  in  the  young,  but  this 
feverishness  isn't  English.  I  never  felt  it 
myself  but  once,  an'  then  Mrs.  Buttah  soon 
had  me  .right  with  a  mustard  plaster.  It's 
chaps  like  you  that  keeps  stocks  on  the  jump. 

DIARNAK.  That  exceed  the  limit. 

MEMBRON.  That  support  our  national  vice. 

ARVA.  Well,  what  do  you  expect,  with  the  show 
humming  round  a  fellow  as  it  does  now  ? 

MARROSQUIN.  We  quite  understand  that  you  were 
bom  without  ballast.    Have  you  anything  fur- 
ther to  say  in  your  defence? 
229 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

ARVA.  Will  any  of  you  lay  me  six  to  four  I  don't 
beat  Sekhet  over  the  first  quarter  ? 

BUTTAH.  Young  man !    No  levity ! 

MEMBRON.  I  fear  that  he  is  hopeless. 

MARROSQUIN.  I  confess  that  I  have  a  certain  ad- 
miration for  this  type.  I  do  not  see  my  way 
to  Sekhet,  but  shall  be  glad  to  record  the 
other  votes. 

BUTTAH.  Sekhet! 

DIARNAK.  The  army  has  been  cheated  of  another 
soldier.  Sekhet ! 

MEMBRON.  The  church  of  a  son.    Sekhet ! 

SOMBOR.  I  like  pluck.  I  will  give  him  the  ben- 
efit of  a  doubt. 

MARROSQUIN.  I  feel  for  you,  young  man,  but 
the  judgment  is  Sekhet,  by  three  votes  to 
two! 

ARVA.  Right!    I've  had  a  run  for  my  money. 

And  Arva  was  placed  beneath  tfre  lemon-tree. 
Then  I  saw  them  come  and  lead  forth  him  who 
was  standing  next  to  me.  Of  what  evil  could  one 
who  had  so  noble  a  mien  be  guilty?  Attired  in 
white,  tall,  and  with  a  fine-shaped  head,  deep 
eyes,  and  a  full  beard,  he  moved  me  to  a  feeling 
of  reverence.  Quietly  he  waited  to  be  questioned, 
and  it  seemed  to  me  that  our  judges  were  uneasy. 

230 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

Then  Buttah,   turning  his  little  eyes  upward, 
spoke: 

BUTTAH.  Well,  sir !  Give  it  a  name,  will  you  ? 
Khanzi?  How  do  you  spell  it?  Just  so! 
Now,  Mr.  Khanzi,  perhaps  you'll  be  so  good 
as  to  tell  us  how  you  came  to  drop  this  mor- 
tal coil,  as  the  poet  says? 

KHANZI.  There  was  no  more  a  place  for  me. 

BUTTAH.  Do  I  understand  you  to  say,  sir,  that 
you  were  crowded  out? 

KHANZI.  I  died  of  refusal  from  door  to  door. 

MEMBRON.  Ah!  I  seem  to —  Usher,  draw  the 
curtains ! 

DIARNAK.  Khanzi,  I  know  you. 

BUTTAH.  I  don't;  and  I'm  not  sure  I  want  to. 
If  you  wish  to  make  a  statement,  I'm  not  the 
one  to  stop  you;  but  I  don't  think  it'll  make 
much  impression  on  us.  You  seem  to  me  a 
very  outlandish  party. 

KHANZI.  Brothers! 

SOMBOR.  Don't  call  us  brothers,  or  it  will  be 
the  worse  for  you. 

KHANZI.   Companions!    From   day  to  day  and 

year  to  year  I  have  wandered,  as  the  wind 

wanders  from  leaf  to  leaf.    I  have  passed 

from  pool  to  pool  and  seen  my  image  shine, 

231 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

and  die  in  the  dark  water.  I  am  ignorant, 
with  no  merit  save  love  of  all  that  lives.  The 
dew  falls,  and  the  stars  come  out,  and  I  rest 
a  moment,  and  pass  on.  Would  that  I  might 
stay  forever  with  each  living  thing ! 

BUTTAH.  They  won't  have  you.    Is  that  it? 

KHANZI.  I  have  no  goods,  I  have  no  name.  I 
have  heard  them  say :  "  If  we  take  him  in,  we 
lose  all.  Power  and  wealth  we  shall  have 
none,  only  love!  What  use  is  that?" 

When  Khanzi  had  spoken  these  words  there 
was  a  very  long  silence,  each  judge  sitting  with 
his  hand  before  his  face.  It  was  Buttah  who 
at  last  made  utterance. 

BUTTAH.  Well,  what  shall  we  do  about  him? 
I've  heard  of  this  here  love,  but  never  yet  met 
a  bagman  that  travelled  in  it.  Would  you 
gentlemen  like  to  ask  him  a  question  or  two  ? 
Usher,  hand  me  my  toupie;  the  glare's  shockin'. 

SOMBOR.  It  would  appear  that  you  are  a  dissolv- 
ing agent. 

KHANZI.  The  wind  sweeps  and  loosens  all  things, 
yet  the  wind  binds  all  things  together. 

SOMBOR.  Speak  plainly.    Are  you  or  are  you  not 
opposed  to  those  who  sit  in  judgment? 
232 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

KHANZI.  Gentle  sir,  he  that  gives  me  shelter  no 
longer  cares  to  judge;  he  loves  too  much. 

SOMBOR.  No  judgments!    No  power!    I  see! 

DIARNAK.  Khanzi !  Do  you  or  do  you  not  obey 
orders  ? 

KHANZI.  Sir,  I  obey  all  orders;  but  where  I  am 
no  orders  are  given.  All  is  service  for  love. 

DIARNAK.  No  orders !    Enough ! 

MEMBRON.  Khanzi!  I  remember  that  once  we 
gave  you  trial,  and  you  were  not  successful. 
Love,  no  doubt,  is  the  ideal,  but  to  rack  people, 
body  and  soul,  is  more  efficacious;  we  have 
been  induced  by  long  experience  to  preach  the 
first  and  practise  the  second.  Have  you  any- 
thing to  say  why  after  all  these  centuries  we 
should  make  further  trial  of  you  ? 

KHANZI.  Brother,  I  am  not  allowed  to  plead,  or 
stay  where  I  am  not  wanted.  I  can  but 
alight  here  and  there,  as  the  rain,  and  the 
songs  of  birds,  and  sunlight  sinking  to  earth 
between  the  leaves.  If  you  cannot  welcome 
me  with  a  whole  heart,  then  bid  me  go ! 

MEMBRON.  You  ask  for  the  impossible.  There  is 
no  such  thing  as  a  whole  heart. 

MARROSQUIN.  Khanzi !  Whenever  I  read  of  you 
in  books,  see  you  in  pictures,  hear  your  voice 
in  music,  I  am  moved  to  admiration;  and  now 
233 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

that  I  see  you  in  the  flesh  I  desire  to  keep  you 
with  us  if  it  be  possible.  But  one  question  I 
must  put  to  you.  Will  you  or  will  you  not 
destroy  that  comfortable  elegance  of  life;  that 
culture,  which,  I  confess,  is  the  sine  qu&  non 
of  my  existence?  I  sincerely  hope  you  may 
be  able  to  answer  in  the  negative. 

KHANZI.  Friend,  what  is  comfort?  Is  it  to 
share  with  all  men,  to  hurt  no  living  thing? 
Is  it  to  throb  with  this  one's  pain,  and  thrill 
with  that  one's  joy?  If  that  be  comfort,  and 
elegance,  and  culture,  I  may  gladly  stay  with 
you. 

MARROSQUIN.  Ah !    Leave  me,  please ! 

BUTTAH.  Mr.  Khanzi!  I  tell  you  frankly  that 
I'm  the  man  in  the  street;  there  are  'undreds 
and  thousands  like  me  that  have  had  to  make 
their  way  in  the  world.  And  what  I  ask  my- 
self is  this:  How  should  I  have  done  it  if  I'd 
took  you  into  partnership?  How  should  I 
have  got  on  if  I'd  thought  of  everybody  else 
as  I've  thought  of  Number  One?  No,  sir, 
that's  unpractical,  and  un-English,  and  there- 
fore it's  unchristian !  With  all  the  good-will 
in  the  world,  the  sooner  Sekhet  has  you  the 
better  for  us  all !  I  say :  Sekhet ! 

SOMBOR  (not  removing  his  hand  from  before  his 

234 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

face).  Khanzi!  Of  all  offences  committed 
against  society,  yours  is  the  greatest.  For 
where  you  are  our  society  cannot  be.  Where 
you  are  there  exists  no  need  for  myself,  nor 
for  Diarnak,  no  need  for  Membron,  Marros- 
quin,  or  Buttah.  This  is  unthinkable.  And, 
since  this  is  unthinkable  by  us,  there  can  be 
no  question  of  your  fate.  Sekhet !  Sekhet ! 

DIAKNAK.  No  more  shall  you  sow  disaffection  in 
my  ranks.  Sekhet! 

MEMBRON.  Khanzi !  I  have  listened  with  sym- 
pathy to  your  explanation  of  your  own  na- 
ture, but  I  seem  to  gather  from  it  an  implied 
attack  upon  myself.  I  have  every  wish  to 
tolerate,  even  to  welcome,  your  theory,  but  I 
am  unable  to  perceive  how  I  can  reconcile  it 
with  my  own  position.  I  am  therefore  reluc- 
tantly compelled — Usher!  the  shutters! — to 
say:  Sekhet! 

MARROSQUIN.  Alas!    Alas!    Sekhet! 

Then  all  the  judges,  covering  their  faces,  in 
voices  that  seemed  coming  from  a  grave,  cried 
out  once  more:  "Sekhet!"  And  Khanzi,  gazing 
at  them  with  his  deep  eyes,  lifted  his  hand  in 
token  that  he  had  heard,  and  stood  back  with 
the  others  beneath  the  lemon-tree. 

235 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

My  turn  had  come!  But  as  I  was  stepping 
forward  Sombor  rose.  "Take/'  he  said,  "those 
five  behind  the  palm-trees,  and  let  Sekhet  off  her 
chain.  Enough  for  to-day,  my  just  and  learned 
brothers.  Let  us  see  our  judgments  carried  out." 
And,  followed  by  the  other  judges,  he  passed  out 
of  sight  behind  the  palm-trees.  Varhet,  Nain, 
Talete,  Arva,  and  Khanzi  were  taken  from  the 
lemon  grove.  And  there  came  up  a  queer  and 
sudden  gloom,  till  the  sky  was  the  colour  of  a 
blackish  orange.  And  the  dark  sea  of  those  be- 
hind us,  over  the  plain  of  Thebes,  was  broken  by 
white  faces,  as  it  might  be  by  little  wave-crests 
flicked  up  under  a  coming  storm.  Presently,  from 
the  far  side  of  the  lemon  grove,  I  saw  my  drago- 
man, Mahmoud  Ibrahim,  yellow  skirts  upraised 
in  hand,  come  running  at  full  speed.  His  broad 
and  jocund  face  was  broken  between  terror  and 
amusement.  Pointing  with  thumb  across  his 
shoulder,  he  gasped  out:  "Sekhet!  She  is  mak- 
ing a  mistake.  She  is  eating  the  wrong  ones! 
She  is  eating  the  judges!  She  is  a  good  one; 
she  has  had  four;  she  is  chasing  Buttah!  My 
Lord!  he  is  running — he  certainly  is  running! 
What  a  life!  What  a  life!"  He  rolled  with 
laughter.  And  we  heard  from  the  distance  a 
long-drawn  "0-ow!"  Then  silence — silence  over 

236 


SEKHET:  A  DREAM 

the  plain  of  Thebes,  to  the  uttermost  moun- 
tains. And  the  sky  was  once  more  blue.  .  .  . 
I  woke.  ... 

Sekhet !  She  who  devours  the  evil  souls  in  the 
underworld ! 

By  day,  by  night,  ever  in  the  blackness, 
watching ! 


237 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

Talking  of  anti-Semitism  one  of  those  morn- 
ings, Ferrand  said:  "Yes,  monsieur,  plenty  of 
those  gentlemen  in  these  days  esteem  themselves 
Christian,  but  I  have  only  once  met  a  Christian 
who  esteemed  himself  a  Jew.  C'etait  ires  drdle — 
je  vais  vous  conter  cela. 

"  It  was  one  autumn  in  London,  and,  the  season 
being  over,  I  was  naturally  in  poverty,  inhabit- 
ing a  palace  in  Westminster  at  fourpence  the 
night.  In  the  next  bed  to  me  that  time  there 
was  an  old  gentleman,  so  thin  that  one  might 
truly  say  he  was  made  of  air.  English,  Scotch, 
Irish,  Welsh — I  shall  never  learn  to  distinguish 
those  little  differences  in  your  race — but  I  well 
think  he  was  English.  Very  feeble,  very  frail, 
white  as  paper,  with  a  long  grey  beard,  and  caves 
in  the  cheeks,  and  speaking  always  softly,  as  if 
to  a  woman.  .  .  .  For  me  it  was  an  experience 
to  see  an  individual  so  gentle  in  a  palace  like 
that.  His  bed  and  bowl  of  broth  he  gained  in 
sweeping  out  the  kennels  of  all  those  sorts  of  types 
who  come  to  sleep  there  every  night.  There  he 

239 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

spent  all  his  day  long,  going  out  only  at  ten 
hours  and  a  half  every  night,  and  returning  at 
midnight  less  one  quarter.  Since  I  had  not  much 
to  do,  it  was  always  a  pleasure  for  me  to  talk 
with  him;  for,  though  he  was  certainly  a  little 
toque"  and  Ferrand  tapped  his  temple,  "he  had 
great  charm,  of  an  old  man,  never  thinking  of 
himself,  no  more  than  a  fly  that  turns  in  dancing 
all  day  beneath  a  ceiling.  If  there  was  some- 
thing he  could  do  for  one  of  those  specimens — 
to  sew  on  a  button,  clean  a  pipe,  catch  beasts  in 
their  clothes,  or  sit  to  see  they  were  not  stolen, 
even  to  give  up  his  place  by  the  fire — he  would 
always  do  it  with  his  smile  so  white  and  gentle; 
and  in  his  leisure  he  would  read  the  Holy  Book ! 
He  inspired  in  me  a  sort  of  affection — there  are 
not  too  many  old  men  so  kind  and  gentle  as 
that,  even  when  they  are  'crackey/  as  you  call 
it.  Several  times  I  have  caught  him  in  washing 
the  feet  of  one  of  those  sots,  or  bathing  some 
black  eye  or  other,  such  as  they  often  catch — a 
man  of  a  spiritual  refinement  really  remarkable; 
in  clothes  also  so  refined  that  one  sometimes  saw 
his  skin.  Though  he  had  never  great  thing  to 
say,  he  heard  you  like  an  angel,  and  spoke  evil 
of  no  one;  but,  seeing  that  he  had  no  more  vigour 
than  a  swallow,  it  piqued  me  much  how  he  would 

240 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

go  out  like  that  every  night  in  all  the  weathers  at 
the  same  hour  for  so  long  a  promenade  of  the 
streets.  And  when  I  interrogated  him  on  this, 
he  would  only  smile  his  smile  of  one  not  there, 
and  did  not  seem  to  know  very  much  of  what  I 
was  talking.  I  said  to  myself:  'There  is  some- 
thing here  to  see,  if  I  am  not  mistaken.  One  of 
these  good  days  I  shall  be  your  guardian  angel 
while  you  fly  the  night.'  For  I  am  a  connoisseur 
of  strange  things,  monsieur,  as  you  know;  though, 
you  may  well  imagine,  being  in  the  streets  all  day 
long  between  two  boards  of  a  sacred  sandwich 
does  not  give  you  too  strong  a  desire  to  flaner  in 
the  evenings.  Eh,  bien!  It  was  a  night  in  late 
October  that  I  at  last  pursued  him.  He  was  not 
difficult  to  follow,  seeing  he  had  no  more  guile 
than  an  egg;  passing  first  at  his  walk  of  an  old 
shadow  into  your  St.  James's  Park  along  where 
your  military  types  puff  out  their  chests  for  the 
nursemaids  to  admire.  Very  slowly  he  went,  lean- 
ing on  a  staff — une  canne  de  promenade  such  as  I 
have  never  seen,  nearly  six  feet  high,  with  an  end 
like  a  shepherd's  crook  or  the  handle  of  a  sword,  a 
thing  truly  to  make  the  gamins  laugh — even  me  it 
made  to  smile,  though  I  am  not  too  well  accus- 
tomed to  mock  at  age  and  poverty,  to  watch  him 
march  in  leaning  on  that  cane.  I  remember  that 

241 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

night — very  beautiful,  the  sky  of  a  clear  dark,  the 
stars  as  bright  as  they  can  ever  be  in  these  towns 
of  our  high  civilisation,  and  the  leaf-shadows  of 
the  plane-trees,  colour  of  grapes  on  the  pave- 
ment, so  that  one  had  not  the  heart  to  put  foot 
on  them.  One  of  those  evenings  when  the  spirit 
is  light,  and  policemen  a  little  dreamy  and  well- 
wishing.  Well,  as  I  tell  you,  my  Old  marched, 
never  looking  behind  him,  like  a  man  who  walks 
in  sleep.  By  that  big  church — which,  like  all 
those  places,  had  its  air  of  coldness,  far  and  un- 
grateful among  us  others,  little  human  creatures 
who  have  built  it — he  passed,  into  the  great 
Eaton  Square,  whose  houses  ought  well  to  be  in- 
habited by  people  very  rich.  There  he  crossed 
to  lean  him  against  the  railings  of  the  garden  in 
the  centre,  very  tranquil,  his  long  white  beard 
falling  over  hands  joined  on  his  staff,  in  await- 
ing what — I  could  not  figure  to  myself  at  all. 
It  was  the  hour  when  your  high  bourgeoisie  return 
from  the  theatre  in  their  carriages,  whose  mani- 
kins sit,  the  arms  crossed,  above  horses  fat  as 
snails.  And  one  would  see  through  the  window 
some  lady  bercee  doucement,  with  the  face  of  one 
who  has  eaten  too  much  and  loved  too  little. 
And  gentlemen  passed  me,  marching  for  a  mouth- 
ful of  fresh  air,  ires  comme  il  faut,  their  concer- 

242 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

tina  hats  pushed  up,  and  nothing  at  all  in  their 
eyes.  I  remarked  my  Old,  who,  making  no  move- 
ment, watched  them  all  as  they  went  by,  till 
presently  a  carriage  stopped  at  a  house  nearly 
opposite.  At  once,  then,  he  began  to  cross  the 
road  quickly,  carrying  his  great  stick.  I  observed 
the  lackey  pulling  the  bell  and  opening  the  car- 
riage door,  and  three  people  coming  forth — a 
man,  a  woman,  a  young  man.  Very  high  bour- 
geoisie, some  judge,  knight,  mayor — what  do  I 
know? — with  his  wife  and  son,  mounting  under 
the  porch.  My  Old  had  come  to  the  bottom  of 
the  steps,  and  spoke,  in  bending  himself  forward, 
as  if  supplicating.  At  once  those  three  turned 
their  faces,  very  astonished.  Although  I  was 
very  intrigued,  I  could  not  hear  what  he  was 
saying,  for,  if  I  came  nearer,  I  feared  he  would 
see  me  spying  on  him.  Only  the  sound  of  his 
voice  I  heard,  gentle  as  always;  and  his  hand  I 
saw  wiping  his  forehead,  as  though  he  had  carried 
something  heavy  from  very  far.  Then  the  lady 
spoke  to  her  husband,  and  went  into  the  house, 
and  the  young  son  followed  in  lighting  a  cigar- 
ette. There  rested  only  that  good  father  of  the 
family,  with  his  grey  whiskers  and  nose  a  little 
bent,  carrying  an  expression  as  if  my  Old  were 
making  him  ridiculous.  He  made  a  quick  ges- 

243 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

ture,  as  though  he  said,  '  Go ! '  then  he  too  fled 
softly.  The  door  was  shut.  At  once  the  lackey 
mounted,  the  carriage  drove  away,  and  all  was 
as  if  it  had  never  been,  except  that  my  Old  was 
standing  there,  quite  still.  But  soon  he  came 
returning,  carrying  his  staff  as  if  it  burdened 
him.  And  recoiling  in  a  porch  to  see  him  pass,  I 
saw  his  visage  full  of  dolour,  of  one  overwhelmed 
with  fatigue  and  grief;  so  that  I  felt  my  heart 
squeeze  me.  I  must  well  confess,  monsieur,  I  was 
a  little  shocked  to  see  this  old  sainted  father  ask- 
ing as  it  seemed  for  alms.  That  is  a  thing  I  my- 
self have  never  done,  not  even  in  the  greatest 
poverty — one  is  not  like  your  ' gentlemen' — one 
does  always  some  little  thing  for  the  money  he 
receives,  if  it  is  only  to  show  a  drunken  man  where 
he  lives.  And  I  returned  in  meditating  deeply 
over  this  problem,  which  well  seemed  to  me  fit  for 
the  angels  to  examine;  and  knowing  what  time 
my  Old  was  always  re-entering,  I  took  care  to  be 
in  my  bed  before  him.  He  came  in  as  ever, 
treading  softly  so  as  not  to  wake  us  others,  and 
his  face  had  again  its  serenity,  a  little  'crackey.' 
As  you  may  well  have  remarked,  monsieur,  I  am 
not  one  of  those  individuals  who  let  everything 
grow  under  the  nose  without  pulling  them  up  to 
see  how  they  are  made.  For  me  the  greatest 

244 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

pleasure  is  to  lift  the  skirts  of  life,  to  unveil  what 
there  is  under  the  surface  of  things  which  are  not 
always  what  they  seem,  as  says  your  good  little 
poet.  For  that  one  must  have  philosophy,  and  a 
certain  industry,  lacking  to  all  those  gentlemen 
who  think  they  alone  are  industrious  because  they 
sit  in  chairs  and  blow  into  the  telephone  all  day, 
in  filling  their  pockets  with  money.  Myself,  I 
coin  knowledge  of  the  heart — it  is  the  only  gold 
they  cannot  take  from  you.  So  that  night  I  lay 
awake.  I  was  not  content  with  what  I  had  seen; 
for  I  could  not  imagine  why  this  old  man,  so  un- 
selfish, so  like  a  saint  in  thinking  ever  of  others, 
should  go  thus  every  night  to  beg,  when  he  had 
always  in  this  palace  his  bed,  and  that  with  which 
to  keep  his  soul  within  his  rags.  Certainly  we  all 
have  our  vices,  and  gentlemen  the  most  revered 
do,  in  secret,  things  they  would  cough  to  see 
others  doing;  but  that  business  of  begging  seemed 
scarcely  in  his  character  of  an  old  altruist — for  in 
my  experience,  monsieur,  beggars  are  not  less 
egoist  than  millionaires.  As  I  say,  it  piqued  me 
much,  and  I  resolved  to  follow  him  again.  The 
second  night  was  of  the  most  different.  There 
was  a  great  wind,  and  white  clouds  flying  in 
the  moonlight.  He  commenced  his  pilgrimage  in 
passing  by  your  House  of  Commons,  as  if  toward 

245 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

the  river.  I  like  much  that  great  river  of  yours. 
There  is  in  its  career  something  of  very  grand; 
it  ought  to  know  many  things,  although  it  is  so 
silent,  and  gives  to  no  one  the  secrets  which  are 
confided  to  it.  He  had  for  objective,  it  seemed, 
that  long  row  of  houses  very  respectable,  which 
gives  on  the  embankment,  before  you  arrive  at 
Chelsea.  It  was  painful  to  see  the  poor  Old, 
bending  almost  double  against  that  great  wind 
coming  from  the  west.  Not  too  many  carriages 
down  here,  and  few  people — a  true  wilderness, 
lighted  by  tall  lamps  which  threw  no  shadows,  so 
clear  was  the  moon.  He  took  his  part  soon,  as 
of  the  other  night,  standing  on  the  far  side  of  the 
road,  watching  for  the  return  of  some  lion  to  his 
den.  And  presently  I  saw  one  coming,  accom- 
panied by  three  lionesses,  all  taller  than  himself. 
This  one  was  bearded,  and  carried  spectacles — a 
real  head  of  learning;  walking,  too,  with  the  step 
of  a  man  who  knows  his  world.  Some  professor 
— I  said  to  myself — with  his  harem.  They  gained 
their  house  at  fifty  paces  from  my  Old;  and, 
while  this  learned  one  was  opening  the  door,  the 
three  ladies  lifted  their  noses  in  looking  at  the 
moon.  A  little  of  aesthetic,  a  little  of  science— 
as  always  with  that  type  there !  At  once  I  had 
perceived  my  Old  coming  across,  blown  by  the 

246 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

wind  like  a  grey  stalk  of  thistle;  and  his  face, 
with  its  expression  of  infinite  pain  as  if  cany- 
ing  the  sufferings  of  the  world.  At  the  moment 
they  see  him  those  three  ladies  drop  their  noses, 
and  fly  within  the  house  as  if  he  were  the  pesti- 
lence, in  crying,  'Henry!'  And  out  conies  my 
monsieur  again,  in  his  beard  and  spectacles.  For 
me,  I  would  freely  have  given  my  ears  to  hear, 
but  I  saw  that  this  good  Henry  had  his  eye  on 
me,  and  I  did  not  budge,  for  fear  to  seem  in  con- 
spiracy. I  heard  him  only  say:  'Impossible! 
Impossible!  Go  to  the  proper  place!'  and  he 
shut  the  door.  My  Old  remained,  with  his  long 
staff  resting  on  a  shoulder  bent  as  if  that  stick 
were  of  lead.  And  presently  he  commenced  to 
march  again  whence  he  had  come,  curved  and 
trembling,  the  very  shadow  of  a  man,  passing  me, 
too,  as  if  I  were  the  air.  That  time  also  I  re- 
gained my  bed  before  him,  in  meditating  very 
deeply,  still  more  uncertain  of  the  psychology  of 
this  affair,  and  resolved  once  again  to  follow  him, 
saying  to  myself:  'This  time  I  shall  run  all  risks 
to  hear.'  There  are  two  kinds  of  men  in  this 
world,  monsieur,  one  who  will  not  rest  content  till 
he  has  become  master  of  all  the  toys  that  make 
a  fat  existence — in  never  looking  to  see  of  what 
they  are  made;  and  the  other,  for  whom  life  is 

247 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

tobacco  and  a  crust  of  bread,  and  liberty  to  take 
all  to  pieces,  so  that  his  spirit  may  feel  good  within 
him.  Frankly,  I  am  of  that  kind.  I  rest  never 
till  I  have  found  out  why  this  is  that;  for  me 
mystery  is  the  salt  of  life,  and  I  must  well  eat 
of  it.  I  put  myself  again,  then,  to  following  him 
the  next  night.  This  tune  he  traversed  those 
little  dirty  streets  of  your  great  Westminster, 
where  all  is  mixed  in  a  true  pudding  of  lords  and 
poor  wretches  at  two  sous  the  dozen;  of  cats 
and  policemen;  kerosene  flames,  abbeys,  and  the 
odour  of  fried  fish.  Ah !  truly  it  is  frightful  to 
see  your  low  streets  in  London;  that  gives  me  a 
conviction  of  hopelessness  such  as  I  have  never 
caught  elsewhere;  piquant,  too,  to  find  them  so 
near  to  that  great  House  which  sets  example  of 
good  government  to  all  the  world.  There  is  an 
irony  so  ferocious  there,  monsieur,  that  one  can 
well  hear  the  good  God  of  your  bourgeois  laugh  in 
every  wheel  that  rolls,  and  the  cry  of  each  cab- 
bage that  is  sold;  and  see  him  smile  in  the  smoky 
light  of  every  flare,  and  in  the  candles  of  your 
cathedral,  in  saying  to  himself:  'I  have  well  made 
this  world.  Is  there  not  variety  here? — en  voilh 
une  bonne  soupe!'  This  time,  however,  I  attended 
my  Old  like  his  very  shadow,  and  could  hear  him 
sighing  as  he  marched,  as  if  he  also  found  the 

248 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

atmosphere  of  those  streets  too  strong.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  he  turned  a  corner,  and  we  were  in 
the  most  quiet,  most  beautiful  little  street  I  have 
seen  in  all  your  London.  It  was  of  small,  old 
houses,  very  regular,  which  made  as  if  they  in- 
clined themselves  in  their  two  rows  before  a 
great  church  at  the  end,  grey  in  the  moonlight, 
like  a  mother.  There  was  no  one  in  that  street, 
and  no  more  cover  than  hair  on  the  head  of  a 
pope.  But  I  had  some  confidence  now  that  my 
Old  would  not  remark  me  standing  there  so  close, 
since  in  these  pilgrimages  he  seemed  to  remark 
nothing.  Leaning  on  his  staff,  I  tell  you  he  had 
the  air  of  an  old  bird  in  a  desert,  reposing  on  one 
leg  by  a  dry  pool,  his  soul  looking  for  water.  It 
gave  me  that  notion  one  has  sometimes  in  watch- 
ing the  rare  spectacles  of  life — that  sentiment 
which,  according  to  me,  pricks  artists  to  their 
work.  We  had  not  stayed  there  too  long  before 
I  saw  a  couple  marching  from  the  end  of  the 
street,  and  thought:  'Here  they  come  to  their 
nest.'  Vigorous  and  gay  they  were,  young  mar- 
ried ones,  eager  to  get  home;  one  could  see  the 
white  neck  of  the  young  wife,  the  white  shirt  of 
the  young  man,  gleaming  under  their  cloaks.  I 
know  them  well,  those  young  couples  in  great 
cities,  without  a  care,  taking  all  things,  the  world 

249 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

before  them,  tres  amoureux,  without,  as  yet,  chil- 
dren; jolly  and  pathetic,  having  life  still  to  learn 
— which,  believe  me,  monsieur,  is  a  sad  enough 
affair  for  nine  rabbits  out  of  ten.  They  stopped 
at  the  house  next  to  where  I  stood;  and,  since  my 
Old  was  coming  fast  as  always  to  the  feast,  I 
put  myself  at  once  to  the  appearance  of  ringing 
the  bell  of  the  house  before  me.  This  time  I 
had  well  the  chance  of  hearing.  I  could  see,  too, 
the  faces  of  all  three,  because  I  have  by  now  the 
habit  of  seeing  out  of  the  back  hair.  The  pig- 
eons were  so  anxious  to  get  to  their  nest  that  my 
Old  had  only  the  time  to  speak,  as  they  were  in 
train  to  vanish.  'Sir,  let  me  rest  in  your  door- 
way!' Monsieur,  I  have  never  seen  a  face  so 
hopeless,  so  cribbled  with  fatigue,  yet  so  full  of 
a  gentle  dignity  as  that  of  my  Old  while  he  spoke 
those  words.  It  was  as  if  something  looked  from 
his  visage  surpassing  what  belongs  to  us  others, 
so  mortal  and  so  cynic  as  human  life  must  well 
render  all  who  dwell  in  this  earthly  paradise.  He 
held  his  long  staff  upon  one  shoulder,  and  I  had 
the  idea,  sinister  enough,  that  it  was  crushing  his 
body  of  a  spectre  down  into  the  pavement.  I 
know  not  how  the  impression  came,  but  it  seemed 
to  me  that  this  devil  of  a  stick  had  the  nature 
of  a  heavy  cross  reposing  on  his  shoulder;  I  had 

250 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

pain  to  prevent  myself  turning,  to  find  if  in  truth 
'I  had  them'  as  your  drunkards  say.  Then  the 
young  man  called  out:  'Here's  a  shilling  for  you, 
my  friend !'  But  my  Old  did  not  budge,  answer- 
ing always:  'Sir,  let  me  rest  in  your  doorway!* 
As  you  may  well  imagine,  monsieur,  we  were  all 
in  the  silence  of  astonishment,  I  pulling  away  at 
my  bell  next  door,  which  was  not  ringing,  seeing 
I  took  care  it  did  not;  and  those  two  young 
people  regarding  my  Old  with  eyes  round  as 
moons,  out  of  their  pigeon-house,  which  I  could 
well  see  was  prettily  feathered.  Their  hearts 
were  making  seesaw,  I  could  tell;  for  at  that 
age  one  is  still  impressionable.  Then  the  girl 
put  herself  to  whispering,  and  her  husband  said 
those  two  words  of  your  young  'gentlemen,' 
'Awfully  sorry!'  and  put  out  his  hand,  which 
held  now  a  coin  large  as  a  saucer.  But  again 
my  Old  only  said:  'Sir,  let  me  rest  in  your  door- 
way!' And  the  young  man  drew  back  his  hand 
quickly  as  if  he  were  ashamed,  and  saying  again, 
'Sorry!'  he  shut  the  door.  I  have  heard  many 
sighs  in  my  tune — they  are  the  good  little  accom- 
paniments to  the  song  we  sing,  we  others  who 
are  in  poverty;  but  the  sigh  my  Old  pushed  then 
— how  can  I  tell  you — had  an  accent  as  if  it 
came  from  Her,  the  faithful  companion,  who 

251 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

marches  in  holding  the  hands  of  men  and  women 
so  that  they  may  never  make  the  grand  mistake 
to  imagine  themselves  for  a  moment  the  good 
God.  Yes,  monsieur,  it  was  as  if  pushed  by  Suf- 
fering herself,  that  bird  of  the  night,  never  tired 
of  flying  in  this  world  where  they  talk  always  of 
cutting  her  wings.  Then  I  took  my  resolution, 
and,  coming  gently  from  behind,  said:  'My  Old 
— what  is  it?  Can  I  do  anything  for  you?' 
Without  looking  at  me,  he  spoke  as  to  himself: 
'I  shall  never  find  one  who  will  let  me  rest  in 
his  doorway.  For  my  sin  I  shall  wander  forever ! ' 
At  this  moment,  monsieur,  there  came  to  me  an 
inspiration  so  clear  that  I  marvelled  I  had  not 
already  had  it  a  long  time  before.  He  thought 
himself  the  Wandering  Jew !  I  had  well  found  it. 
This  was  certainly  his  fixed  idea,  of  a  cracked 
old  man!  And  I  said:  'My  Jew,  do  you  know 
this?  In  doing  what  you  do,  you  have  become 
as  Christ,  in  a  world  of  wandering  Jews!'  But 
he  did  not  seem  to  hear  me,  and  only  just  as  we 
arrived  at  our  palace  became  again  that  old  gen- 
tle being,  thinking  never  of  himself." 

Behind  the  smoke  of  his  cigarette,  a  smile 
curled  Ferrand's  red  lips  under  his  long  nose  a 
little  on  one  side. 

"And,  if  you  think  of  it,  monsieur,  it  is  well 
252 


A  SIMPLE  TALE 

like  that.  Provided  there  exists  always  that  good 
man  of  a  Wandering  Jew,  he  will  certainly  have 
become  as  Christ,  in  all  these  centuries  of  being 
refused  from  door  to  door.  Yes,  yes,  he  must 
well  have  acquired  charity  the  most  profound 
that  this  world  has  ever  seen,  in  watching  the 
crushing  virtue  of  others.  All  those  gentry,  of 
whom  he  asks  night  by  night  to  let  him  rest  in 
their  doorways,  they  tell  him  where  to  go,  how 
to  menager  his  life,  even  offer  him  money,  as  I 
had  seen;  but,  to  let  him  rest,  to  trust  him  in 
their  houses — this  strange  old  man — as  a  fellow, 
a  brother  voyager — that  they  will  not;  it  is 
hardly  in  the  character  of  good  citizens  in  a 
Christian  country.  And,  as  I  have  indicated  to 
you,  this  Old  of  mine,  cracked  as  he  was,  think- 
ing himself  that  Jew  who  refused  rest  to  the  good 
Christ,  had  become,  in  being  refused  for  ever,  the 
most  Christ-like  man  I  have  ever  encountered  on 
this  earth,  which,  according  to  me,  is  composed 
almost  entirely  of  those  who  have  themselves  the 
character  of  the  Wandering  Jew." 

Puffing  out  a  sigh  of  smoke,  Ferrand  added: 
"I  do  not  know  whether  he  continued  to  pursue 
his  idea,  for  I  myself  took  the  road  next  morn- 
ing, and  I  have  never  seen  him  since." 


253 


ULTIMA   THULE 

Ultima  Thule !  The  words  come  into  my  head 
this  winter  night.  That  is  why  I  write  down  the 
story,  as  I  know  it,  of  a  little  old  friend. 

I  used  to  see  him  first  in  Kensington  Gardens, 
where  he  came  in  the  afternoons,  accompanied 
by  a  very  small  girl.  One  would  see  them  silent 
before  a  shrub  or  flower,  or  with  their  heads  in- 
clined to  heaven  before  a  tree,  or  leaning  above 
water  and  the  ducks,  or  stretched  on  their  stom- 
achs watching  a  beetle,  or  on  their  backs  watch- 
ing the  sky.  Often  they  would  stand  holding 
crumbs  out  to  the  birds,  who  would  perch  about 
them,  and  even  drop  on  their  arms  little  white 
marks  of  affection  and  esteem.  They  were  ad- 
mittedly a  noticeable  couple.  The  child,  who  was 
fair-haired  and  elfinlike,  with  dark  eyes  and  a 
pointed  chin,  wore  clothes  that  seemed  somewhat 
hard  put  to  it.  And,  if  the  two  were  not  stand- 
ing still,  she  went  along  pulling  at  his  hand, 
eager  to  get  there;  and,  since  he  was  a  very  little 
light  old  man,  he  seemed  always  in  advance  of 

255 


ULTIMA  THULE 

his  own  feet.  He  was  garbed,  if  I  remember,  in 
a  daverdy  brown  overcoat  and  broad-brimmed 
soft  grey  hat,  and  his  trousers,  what  was  visible 
of  them,  were  tucked  into  half-length  black  gaiters 
which  tried  to  join  with  very  old  brown  shoes. 
Indeed,  his  costume  did  not  indicate  any  great 
share  of  prosperity.  But  it  was  his  face  that  riv- 
eted attention.  Thin,  cherry-red,  and  wind-dried 
as  old  wood,  it  had  a  special  sort  of  brightness, 
with  its  spikes  and  waves  of  silvery  hair,  and  blue 
eyes  that  seemed  to  shine.  Rather  mad,  I  used 
to  think.  Standing  by  the  rails  of  an  enclosure, 
with  his  withered  lips  pursed  and  his  cheeks 
drawn  in  till  you  would  think  the  wind  might 
blow  through  them,  he  would  emit  the  most  en- 
ticing trills  and  pipings,  exactly  imitating  various 
birds. 

Those  who  rouse  our  interest  are  generally  the 
last  people  we  speak  to,  for  interest  seems  to  set 
up  a  kind  of  special  shyness;  so  it  was  long  be- 
fore I  made  his  acquaintance.  But  one  day  by 
the  Serpentine,  I  saw  him  coming  along  alone, 
looking  sad,  but  still  with  that  queer  brightness 
about  him.  He  sat  down  on  my  bench  with  his 
little  dried  hands  on  his  thin  little  knees,  and 
began  talking  to  himself  in  a  sort  of  whisper. 
Presently  I  caught  the  words:  "God  cannot  be 

256 


ULTIMA  THULE 

like  us."  And  for  fear  that  he  might  go  on  utter- 
ing such  precious  remarks  that  were  obviously 
not  intended  to  be  heard,  I  had  either  to  go 
away  or  else  address  him.  So,  on  an  impulse,  I 
said: 

"Why?" 

He  turned  without  surprise. 

"I've  lost  my  landlady's  little  girl,"  he  said. 
"Dead !  And  only  seven  years  old." 

"That  little  thing !    I  used  to  watch  you." 

"  Did  you  ?    Did  you  ?    I'm  glad  you  saw  her." 

"I  used  to  see  you  looking  at  flowers,  and 
trees,  and  those  ducks." 

His  face  brightened  wistfully.  "Yes;  she  was 
a  great  companion  to  an  old  man  like  me."  And 
he  relapsed  into  his  contemplation  of  the  water. 
He  had  a  curious,  precise  way  of  speaking,  that 
matched  his  pipchinesque  little  old  face.  At  last 
he  again  turned  to  me  those  blue  youthful  eyes 
that  seemed  to  shine  out  of  a  perfect  little  nest 
of  crow's-feet. 

"We  were  great  friends!  But  I  couldn't  ex- 
pect it.  Things  don't  last,  do  they?"  I  was 
glad  to  notice  that  his  voice  was  getting  cheerful. 
"When  I  was  in  the  orchestra  at  the  Harmony 
Theatre,  it  never  used  to  occur  to  me  that  some 
day  I  shouldn't  play  there  any  more.  One  felt 

257 


ULTIMA  THULE 

like  a  bird.  That's  the  beauty  of  music,  sir. 
You  lose  yourself;  like  that  blackbird  there." 
He  imitated  the  note  of  a  blackbird  so  perfectly 
that  I  could  have  sworn  the  bird  started. 

"Birds  and  flowers!  Wonderful  things;  won- 
derful !  Why,  even  a  buttercup — ! "  He  pointed 
at  one  of  those  little  golden  flowers  with  his  toe. 
"Did  you  ever  see  such  a  marvellous  thing?" 
And  he  turned  his  face  up  at  me.  "And  yet, 
somebody  told  me  once  that  they  don't  agree 
with  cows.  Now  can  that  be?  I'm  not  a  coun- 
tryman— though  I  was  born  at  Kingston." 

"The  cows  do  well  enough  on  them,"  I  said, 
"in  my  part  of  the  world.  In  fact,  the  farmers 
say  they  like  to  see  buttercups." 

"I'm  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.  I  was  always 
sorry  to  think  they  disagreed." 

When  I  got  up  to  go,  he  rose,  too. 

"I  take  it  as  very  kind  of  you,"  he  said,  "to 
have  spoken  to  me." 

"  The  pleasure  was  mine.  I  am  generally  to  be 
found  hereabouts  in  the  afternoons  any  time  you 
like  a  talk." 

"Delighted,"  he  said;  "delighted.  I  make 
friends  of  the  creatures  and  flowers  as  much  as 
possible,  but  they  can't  always  make  us  under- 
stand." And  after  we  had  taken  off  our  respect- 

258 


ULTIMA  THULE 

ive  hats,  he  reseated  himself,  with  his  hands  on 
his  knees. 

Next  time  I  came  across  him  standing  by  the 
rails  of  an  enclosure,  and,  in  his  arms,  an  old  and 
really  wretched-looking  cat. 

"I  don't  like  boys,"  he  said,  without  prelimi- 
nary of  any  sort.  "What  do  you  think  they  were 
doing  to  this  poor  old  cat  ?  Dragging  it  along  by 
a  string  to  drown  it;  see  where  it's  cut  into  the 
fur!  I  think  boys  despise  the  old  and  weak!" 
He  held  it  out  to  me.  At  the  ends  of  those  little 
sticks  of  arms  the  beast  looked  more  dead  than 
alive ;  I  had  never  seen  a  more  miserable  creature. 

"I  think  a  cat,"  he  said,  "is  one  of  the  most 
marvellous  things  in  the  world.  Such  a  depth  of 
life  in  it." 

And,  as  he  spoke,  the  cat  opened  its  mouth  as 
if  protesting  at  that  assertion.  It  was  the  sor- 
riest-looking beast. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  it?" 

"Take  it  home;  it  looks  to  me  as  if  it  might 
die." 

"You  don't  think  that  might  be  more  mer- 
ciful?" 

"It  depends;  it  depends.  I  shall  see.  I  fancy 
a  little  kindness  might  do  a  great  deal  for  it.  It's 
got  plenty  of  spirit.  I  can  see  from  its  eye." 

259 


ULTIMA  THULE 

"May  I  come  along  with  you  a  bit?" 

"Oh!"  he  said;  "delighted." 

We  walked  on  side  by  side,  exciting  the  derision 
of  nearly  every  one  we  passed — his  face  looked 
so  like  a  mother's  when  she  is  feeding  her  baby ! 

"You'll  find  this'll  be  quite  a  different  cat 
to-morrow,"  he  said.  "I  shall  have  to  get  in, 
though,  without  my  landlady  seeing;  a  funny 
woman !  I  have  two  or  three  strays  already." 

"Can  I  help  in  any  way?" 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "I  shall  ring  the  area 
bell,  and  as  she  comes  out  below  I  shall  go  in 
above.  She'll  think  it's  boys.  They  are  like  that." 

"But  doesn't  she  do  your  rooms,  or  anything?" 

A  smile  puckered  his  face.  "I've  only  one;  I 
do  it  myself.  Oh,  it'd  never  do  to  have  her  about, 
even  if  I  could  afford  it.  But,"  he  added,  "if 
you're  so  kind  as  to  come  with  me  to  the  door, 
you  might  engage  her  by  asking  where  Mr. 
Thompson  lives.  That's  me.  In  the  musical 
world  my  name  was  Moronelli;  not  that  I  have 
Italian  blood  in  me,  of  course." 

"And  shall  I  come  up?" 

"Honoured;  but  I  live  very  quietly." 

We  passed  out  of  the  gardens  at  Lancaster 
Gate,  where  all  the  house-fronts  seem  so  success- 
ful, and  out  of  it  into  a  little  street  that  was  ex- 

260 


ULTIMA  THULE 

tremely  like  a  grubby  child  trying  to  hide  under 
its  mother's  skirts.  Here  he  took  a  newspaper 
from  his  pocket  and  wrapped  it  round  the  cat. 

"She's  a  funny  woman/'  he  repeated;  "Scotch 
descent,  you  know."  Suddenly  he  pulled  an  area 
bell  and  scuttled  up  the  steps. 

When  he  had  opened  the  door,  however,  I  saw 
before  him  in  the  hall  a  short,  thin  woman  dressed 
in  black,  with  a  sharp  and  bumpy  face.  Her  voice 
sounded  brisk  and  resolute. 

"What  have  you  got  there,  Mr.  Thompson?" 

"Newspaper,  Mrs.  March." 

"  Oh,  indeed !  Now,  you're  not  going  to  take 
that  cat  up-stairs!" 

The  little  old  fellow's  voice  acquired  a  sudden 
shrill  determination.  "Stand  aside,  please.  If 
you  stop  me,  I'll  give  you  notice.  The  cat  is 
going  up.  It's  ill,  and  it  is  going  up." 

It  was  then  I  said: 

"Does  Mr.  Thompson  live  here?" 

In  that  second  he  shot  past  her,  and  ascended. 

"That's  him,"  she  said;  "and  I  wish  it  wasn't, 
with  his  dirty  cats.  Do  you  want  him  ?" 

"I  do." 

"He  lives  at  the  top."  Then,  with  a  grudging 
apology:  "I  can't  help  it;  he  tries  me — he's  very 
trying." 

261 


ULTIMA  THULE 

"I  am  sure  he  is." 

She  looked  at  me.  The  longing  to  talk  that 
comes  over  those  who  answer  bells  all  day,  and 
the  peculiar  Scottish  desire  to  justify  oneself,  rose 
together  in  that  face  which  seemed  all  promon- 
tories dried  by  an  east  wind. 

"Ah!"  she  said;  "he  is.  I  don't  deny  his 
heart;  but  he's  got  no  sense  of  anything.  Good- 
ness knows  what  he  hasn't  got  up  there.  I  won- 
der I  keep  him.  An  old  man  like  that  ought  to 
know  better;  half-starving  himself  to  feed  them." 
She  paused,  and  her  eyes,  that  had  a  cold  and 
honest  glitter,  searched  me  closely. 

"If  you're  going  up,"  she  said,  "I  hope  you'll 
give  him  good  advice.  He  never  lets  me  in.  I 
wonder  I  keep  him." 

There  were  three  flights  of  stairs,  narrow,  clean, 
and  smelling  of  oilcloth.  Selecting  one  of  two 
doors  at  random,  I  knocked.  His  silvery  head  and 
bright,  pinched  face  were  cautiously  poked  out. 

"Ah!"  he  said;  "I  thought  it  might  be  her!" 

The  room,  which  was  fairly  large,  had  a  bare 
floor  with  little  on  it  save  a  camp-bed  and  chest 
of  drawers  with  jug  and  basin.  A  large  bird- 
cage on  the  wall  hung  wide  open.  The  place 
smelt  of  soap  and  a  little  of  beasts  and  birds. 
Into  the  walls,  whitewashed  over  a  green  wall- 

262 


ULTIMA  THULE 

paper  which  stared  through  in  places,  were  driven 
nails  with  their  heads  knocked  off,  onto  which 
bits  of  wood  had  been  spiked,  so  that  they  stood 
out  as  bird-perches  high  above  the  ground.  Over 
the  open  window  a  piece  of  wire  netting  had 
been  fixed.  A  little  spirit-stove  and  an  old  dress- 
ing-gown hanging  on  a  peg  completed  the  accou- 
trements of  a  room  which  one  entered  with  a 
certain  diffidence.  He  had  not  exaggerated.  Be- 
sides the  new  cat,  there  were  three  other  cats  and 
four  birds,  all — save  one,  a  bullfinch — invalids. 
The  cats  kept  close  to  the  walls,  avoiding  me,  but 
wherever  my  little  old  friend  went,  they  followed 
him  with  their  eyes.  The  birds  were  in  the  cage, 
except  the  bullfinch,  which  had  perched  on  his 
shoulder. 

"How  on  earth,"  I  said,  "do  you  manage  to 
keep  cats  and  birds  in  one  room?" 

"There  is  danger,"  he  answered,  "but  I  have 
not  had  a  disaster  yet.  Till  their  legs  or  wings 
are  mended,  they  hardly  come  out  of  the  cage; 
and  after  that  they  keep  up  on  my  perches.  But 
they  don't  stay  long,  you  know,  when  they're 
once  well.  That  wire  is  only  put  over  the  win- 
dow while  they're  mending;  it'll  be  off  to-morrow, 
for  this  lot." 

"And  then  they'll  go?" 
263 


ULTIMA  THULE 

"Yes.  The  sparrow  first,  and  then  the  two 
thrushes." 

"And  this  fellow?" 

"Ask  him/'  he  said.  "Would  you  go,  bully?" 
But  the  bullfinch  did  not  deign  to  answer. 

"And  were  all  those  cats,  too,  in  trouble?" 

"Yes,"  he  said.  "They  wouldn't  want  me  if 
they  weren't." 

Thereupon  he  began  to  warm  some  blue-look- 
ing milk,  contemplating  the  new  cat,  which  he  had 
placed  in  a  round  basket  close  to  the  little  stove, 
while  the  bullfinch  sat  on  his  head.  It  seemed 
time  to  go. 

"Delighted  to  see  you,  sir,"  he  said,  "any 
day."  And,  pointing  up  at  the  bullfinch  on  his 
head,  he  added:  "Did  you  ever  see  anything  so 
wonderful  as  that  bird?  The  size  of  its  heart! 
Really  marvellous !" 

To  the  rapt  sound  of  that  word  marvellous, 
and  full  of  the  memory  of  his  mysterious  bright- 
ness while  he  stood  pointing  upward  to  the  bird 
perched  on  his  thick,  silvery  hair,  I  went. 

The  landlady  was  still  at  the  bottom  of  the 
stairs,  and  began  at  once:  "So  you  found  him  t 
I  don't  know  why  I  keep  him.  Of  course,  he  was 
kind  to  my  little  girl."  I  saw  tears  gather  in  her 
eyes. 

264 


ULTIMA  THULE 

"With  his  cats  and  his  birds,  I  wonder  I  keep 
him!  But  where  would  he  go?  He's  no  rela- 
tions, and  no  friends — not  a  friend  in  the  world, 
I  think !  He's  a  character.  Lives  on  air — feed- 
ing them  cats !  I've  no  patience  with  them,  eat- 
ing him  up.  He  never  lets  me  in.  Cats  and 
birds!  I  wonder  I  keep  him.  Losing  himself 
for  those  rubbishy  things !  It's  my  belief  he  was 
always  like  that;  and  that's  why  he  never  got 
on.  He's  no  sense  of  anything." 

And  she  gave  me  a  shrewd  look,  wondering,  no 
doubt,  what  the  deuce  I  had  come  about. 

I  did  not  come  across  him  again  in  the  gar- 
dens for  some  time,  and  went  at  last  to  pay  him 
a  call.  At  the  entrance  to  a  mews  just  round  the 
corner  of  his  grubby  little  street,  I  found  a  knot 
of  people  collected  round  one  of  those  bears  that 
are  sometimes  led  through  the  less  conspicuous 
streets  of  our  huge  towns.  The  yellowish  beast 
was  sitting  up  in  deference  to  its  master's  rod, 
uttering  little  grunts,  and  moving  its  uplifted 
snout  from  side  to  side,  in  the  way  bears  have. 
But  it  seemed  to  be  extracting  more  amusement 
than  money  from  its  audience. 

"Let  your  bear  down  off  its  hind  legs  and  I'll 
give  you  a  penny."  And  suddenly  I  saw  my 
little  old  friend  under  his  flopping  grey  hat, 

265 


ULTIMA  THULE 

amongst  the  spectators,  all  taller  than  himself. 
But  the  bear's  master  only  grinned  and  prodded 
the  animal  in  the  chest.  He  evidently  knew  a 
good  thing  when  he  saw  it. 

"I'll  give  you  twopence  to  let  him  down." 

Again  the  bear-man  grinned.  "More!"  he 
said,  and  again  prodded  the  bear's  chest.  The 
spectators  were  laughing  now. 

"  Threepence !  And  if  you  don't  let  him  down 
for  that,  I'll  hit  you  in  the  eye." 

The  bear-man  held  out  his  hand.  "  All  a-right," 
he  said,  "threepence;  I  let  him  down." 

I  saw  the  coins  pass  and  the  beast  dropping 
on  his  forefeet;  but  just  then  a  policeman  com- 
ing in  sight,  the  man  led  his  bear  off,  and  I  was 
left  alone  with  my  little  old  friend. 

"I  wish  I  had  that  poor  bear,"  he  said;  "I 
could  teach  him  to  be  happy.  But,  even  if  I 
could  buy  him,  what  could  I  do  with  him  up 
there?  She's  such  a  funny  woman." 

He  looked  quite  dim,  but  brightened  as  we 
went  along. 

"A  bear,"  he  said,  "is  really  an  extraordinary 
animal.  What  wise  little  eyes  he  has!  I  do 
think  he's  a  marvellous  creation!  My  cats  will 
have  to  go  without  their  dinner,  though.  I  was 
going  to  buy  it  with  that  threepence." 

266 


ULTIMA  THULE 

I  begged  to  be  allowed  the  privilege. 

"Willingly!"  he  said.  "Shall  we  go  in  here? 
They  like  cod's  head  best." 

While  we  stood  waiting  to  be  served  I  saw  the 
usual  derisive  smile  pass  over  the  fishmonger's 
face.  But  my  little  old  friend  by  no  means  no- 
ticed it;  he  was  too  busy  looking  at  the  fish. 
"A  fish  is  a  marvellous  thing,  when  you  come  to 
think  of  it,"  he  murmured.  "Look  at  its  scales. 
Did  you  ever  see  such  mechanism?" 

We  bought  five  cod's  heads,  and  I  left  him 
carrying  them  in  a  bag,  evidently  lost  in  the  an- 
ticipation of  five  cats  eating  them. 

After  that  I  saw  him  often,  going  with  him 
sometimes  to  buy  food  for  his  cats,  which  seemed 
ever  to  increase  in  numbers.  His  talk  was  always 
of  his  strays,  and  the  marvels  of  creation,  and 
that  time  of  his  life  when  he  played  the  flute  at 
the  Harmony  Theatre.  He  had  been  out  of  a 
job,  it  seemed,  for  more  than  ten  years;  and, 
when  questioned,  only  sighed  and  answered: 
"Don't  talk  about  it,  please!" 

His  bumpy  landlady  never  failed  to  favour  me 
with  a  little  conversation.  She  was  one  of  those 
women  who  have  terrific  consciences,  and  terrible 
grudges  against  them. 

"I  never  get  out,"  she  would  say. 
267 


ULTIMA  THULE 

"Why  not?" 

"  Couldn't  leave  the  house." 

"It  won't  run  away!" 

But  she  would  look  at  me  as  if  she  thought  it 
might,  and  repeat: 

"Oh!  I  never  get  out." 

An  extremely  Scottish  temperament. 

Considering  her  descent,  however,  she  was  curi- 
ously devoid  of  success,  struggling  on  apparently 
from  week  to  week,  cleaning,  and  answering 
the  bell,  and  never  getting  out,  and  wondering 
why  she  kept  my  little  old  friend;  just  as  he 
struggled  on  from  week  to  week,  getting  out 
and  collecting  strays,  and  discovering  the  mar- 
vels of  creation,  and  finding  her  a  funny  woman. 
Their  hands  were  joined,  one  must  suppose,  by 
that  dead  child. 

One  July  afternoon,  however,  I  found  her  very 
much  upset.  He  had  been  taken  dangerously  ill 
three  days  before. 

"There  he  is,"  she  said;  "can't  touch  a  thing. 
It's  my  belief  he's  done  for  himself,  giving  his 
food  away  all  these  years  to  those  cats  of  his. 
I  shooed  'em  out  to-day,  the  nasty  creatures; 
they  won't  get  in  again." 

"Oh!"  I  said,  "you  shouldn't  have  done  that. 
It'll  only  make  him  miserable." 

268 


ULTIMA  THULE 

She  flounced  her  head  up.  "Hoh!"  she  said; 
"I  wonder  I've  kept  him  all  this  time,  with  his 
birds  and  his  cats  dirtying  my  house.  And  there 
he  lies,  talking  gibberish  about  them.  He  made 
me  write  to  a  Mr.  Jackson,  of  some  theatre  or 
other — I've  no  patience  with  him.  And  that 
little  bullfinch  all  the  time  perching  on  his  pillow, 
the  dirty  little  thing !  I'd  have  turned  it  out,  too, 
only  it  wouldn't  let  me  catch  it." 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"  Double  pneumonia — caught  it  getting  his  feet 
wet,  after  some  stray,  I'll  be  bound.  I'm  nurs- 
ing him.  There  has  to  be  some  one  with  him  all 
the  tune." 

He  was  lying  very  still  when  I  went  up,  with 
the  sunlight  falling  across  the  foot  of  his  bed,  and, 
sure  enough,  the  bullfinch  perching  on  his  pillow. 
In  that  high  fever  he  looked  brighter  than  ever. 
He  was  not  exactly  delirious,  yet  not  exactly 
master  of  his  thoughts. 

"  Mr.  Jackson !  He'll  be  here  soon.  Mr.  Jack- 
son! He'll  do  it  for  me.  I  can  ask  him,  if  I 
die.  A  funny  woman.  I  don't  want  to  eat;  I'm 
not  a  great  eater — I  want  my  breath,  that's 
all." 

At  sound  of  his  voice  the  bullfinch  fluttered  off 
the  pillow  and  flew  round  and  round  the  room, 

269 


ULTIMA  THULE 

as  if  alarmed  at  something  new  in  the  tones  that 
were  coming  from  its  master. 

Then  he  seemed  to  recognise  me.  "I  think 
I'm  going  to  die,"  he  said;  "I'm  very  weak. 
It's  lucky,  there's  nobody  to  mind.  If  only  he'd 
come  soon.  I  wish" — and  he  raised  himself  with 
feeble  excitement — "I  wish  you'd  take  that  wire 
off  the  window;  I  want  my  cats.  She  turned 
them  out.  I  want  him  to  promise  me  to  take 
them,  and  bully-boy,  and  feed  them  with  my 
money,  when  I'm  dead." 

Seeing  that  excitement  was  certainly  worse  for 
him  than  cats,  I  took  the  wire  off.  He  fell  back, 
quiet  at  once;  and  presently,  first  one  and  then 
another  cat  came  stealing  in,  till  there  were  four 
or  five  seated  against  the  walls.  The  moment  he 
ceased  to  speak  the  bullfinch,  too,  came  back  to 
his  pillow.  His  eyes  looked  most  supernaturally 
bright,  staring  out  of  his  little,  withered-up  old 
face  at  the  sunlight  playing  on  his  bed;  he  said 
just  audibly:  "Did  you  ever  see  anything  more 
wonderful  than  that  sunlight?  It's  really  mar- 
vellous!" After  that  he  fell  into  a  sort  of  doze 
or  stupor.  And  I  continued  to  sit  there  in  the 
window,  relieved,  but  rather  humiliated,  that  he 
had  not  asked  me  to  take  care  of  his  cats  and 
bullfinch. 

270 


ULTIMA  THULE 

Presently  there  came  the  sound  of  a  motor-car 
in  the  little  street  below.  And  almost  at  once 
the  landlady  appeared.  For  such  an  abrupt 
woman,  she  entered  very  softly. 

"Here  he  is,"  she  whispered. 

I  went  out  and  found  a  gentleman,  perhaps 
sixty  years  of  age,  in  a  black  coat,  buff  waist- 
coat, gold  watch-chain,  light  trousers,  patent- 
leather  boots,  and  a  wonderfully  shining  hat.  His 
face  was  plump  and  red,  with  a  glossy  grey  mous- 
tache; indeed,  he  seemed  to  shine  everywhere, 
save  in  the  eyes,  which  were  of  a  dull  and  some- 
what liverish  hue. 

"Mr.  Jackson?" 

"The  same.    How  is  the  little  old  chap?" 

Opening  the  door  of  the  next  room,  which  I 
knew  was  always  empty,  I  beckoned  Mr.  Jack- 
son in. 

"He's  really  very  ill;  I'd  better  tell  you  what 
he  wants  to  see  you  about." 

He  looked  at  me  with  that  air  of  "You  can't 
get  at  me — whoever  you  may  be,"  which  belongs 
to  the  very  successful. 

"Right-o!"hesaid.    "Well?" 

I  described  the  situation.  "  He  seems  to  think," 
I  ended,  "that  you'll  be  kind  enough  to  charge 
yourself  with  his  strays,  in  case  he  should  die." 

271 


ULTIMA  THULE 

Mr.  Jackson  prodded  the  unpainted  wash-stand 
with  his  gold-headed  cane. 

"Is  he  really  going  to  kick  it?" 

"I'm  afraid  so;  he's  nothing  but  skin,  bone, 
and  spirit,  as  it  is." 

"H'm!  Stray  cats,  you  say,  and  a  bird!  Well, 
there's  no  accounting.  He  was  always  a  cracky 
little  chap.  So  that's  it !  When  I  got  the  letter 
I  wondered  what  the  deuce!  We  pay  him  his 
five  quid  a  quarter  regular  to  this  day.  To  tell 
truth,  he  deserved  it.  Thirty  years  he  was  at  our 
shop;  never  missed  a  night.  First-rate  flute  he 
was.  He  ought  never  to  have  given  it  up,  though 
I  always  thought  it  showed  a  bit  of  heart  in  him. 
If  a  man  don't  look  after  number  one,  he's  as 
good  as  gone;  that's  what  I've  always  found. 
Why,  I  was  no  more  than  he  was  when  I  started. 
Shouldn't  have  been  worth  a  plum  if  I'd  gone  on 
his  plan,  that's  certain."  And  he  gave  that  pro- 
found chuckle  which  comes  from  the  very  stom- 
ach of  success.  "We  were  having  a  rocky  time 
at  the  Harmony;  had  to  cut  down  everything  we 
could — music,  well,  that  came  about  first.  Little 
old  Moronelli,  as  we  used  to  call  him — old  Italian 
days  before  English  names  came  in,  you  know — 
he  was  far  the  best  of  the  flutes;  so  I  went  to 
him  and  said:  'Look  here,  Moronelli,  which  of 

272 


ULTIMA  THULE 

these  other  boys  had  better  go  ? '  '  Oh ! '  he  said 
— I  remember  his  funny  little  old  mug  now — 
'has  one  of  them  to  go,  Mr.  Jackson  ?  Timminsa' 
— that  was  the  elder — 'he's  a  wife  and  family;  and 
Smetoni' — Smith,  you  know — 'he's  only  a  boy. 
Times  are  bad  for  flutes.'  '  I  know  it's  a  bit  hard/ 

I  said,  'but  this  theatre's  goin'  to  be  run  much 
cheaper;  one  of  'em's  got  to  get.'    'Oh !'  he  said, 
'  dear  me ! '  he  said.    What  a  funny  little  old  chap 
it  was !    Well — what  do  you  think  ?    Next  day  I 
had  his  resignation.    Give  you  my  word  I  did 
my  best  to  turn  him.    Why,  he  was  sixty  then 
if  he  was  a  day — at  sixty  a  man  don't  get  jobs  in 
a  hurry.    But,  not  a  bit  of  it !    All  he'd  say  was : 

I 1  shall  get  a  place  all  right ! '    But  that's  it,  you 
know — he  never  did.    Too  long  in  one  shop.    I 
heard  by  accident  he  was  on  the  rocks;   that's 
how  I  make  him  that  allowance.    But  that's  the 
sort  of  hopeless  little  old  chap  he  is — no  idea  of 
himself.    Cats !    Why  not  ?    I'll  take  his  old  cats 
on;  don't  you  let  him  worry  about  that.    I'll  see 
to  his  bird,  too.    If  I  can't  give  'em  a  better  time 
than  ever  they  have  here,  it'll  be  funny !"    And, 
looking  round  the  little  empty  room,  he  again 
uttered  that  profound  chuckle:    "Why,  he  was 
with  us   at   the   Harmony   thirty  years — that's 
time,  you  know;  7  made  my  fortune  in  it." 

273  ' 


ULTIMA  THULE 

"I'm  sure,"  I  said,  "it'll  be  a  great  relief  to 
him." 

"Oh!  Ah!  That's  all  right.  You  come  down 
to  my  place" — he  handed  me  a  card:  'Mr. 
Cyril  Porteus  Jackson,  Ultima  Thule,  Wimble- 
don'— "and  see  how  I  fix  'em  up.  But  if  he's 
really  going  to  kick  it,  I'd  like  to  have  a  look  at 
the  little  old  chap,  just  for  old  times'  sake." 

We  went,  as  quietly  as  Mr.  Jackson's  bright 
boots  would  permit,  into  his  room,  where  the 
landlady  was  sitting  gazing  angrily  at  the  cats. 
She  went  out  without  noise,  flouncing  her  head  as 
much  as  to  say:  "Well,  now  you  can  see  what  I 
have  to  go  through,  sitting  up  here.  I  never  get 
out." 

Our  little  old  friend  was  still  in  that  curious 
stupor.  He  seemed  unconscious,  but  his  blue 
eyes  were  not  closed,  staring  brightly  out  before 
them  at  things  we  did  not  see.  With  his  silvery 
hair  and  his  flushed  frailty,  he  had  an  unearthly 
look.  After  standing  perhaps  three  minutes  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed,  Mr.  Jackson  whispered : 

"Well,  he  does  look  queer.  Poor  little  old 
chap !  You  tell  him  from  me  I'll  look  after  his 
cats  and  bird;  he  needn't  worry.  And  now,  I 
think  I  won't  keep  the  car.  Makes  me  feel  a  bit 
throaty,  you  know.  Don't  move;  he  might 
come  to." 

274 


ULTIMA  THULE 

And,  leaning  all  the  weight  of  his  substantial 
form  on  those  bright  and  creaking  toes,  he  made 
his  way  to  the  door,  flashed  at  me  a  diamond 
ring,  whispered  hoarsely:  "So  long!  That'll  be 
all  right!"  and  vanished.  And  soon  I  heard  the 
whirring  of  his  car  and  just  saw  the  top  of  his 
shiny  hat  travelling  down  the  little  street. 

Some  time  I  sat  on  there,  wanting  to  deliver 
that  message.  An  uncanny  vigil  in  the  failing 
light,  with  those  five  cats — yes,  five  at  least — 
lying  or  sitting  against  the  walls,  staring  like 
sphinxes  at  their  motionless  protector.  I  could 
not  make  out  whether  it  was  he  in  his  stupor 
with  his  bright  eyes  that  fascinated  them,  or  the 
bullfinch  perched  on  his  pillow,  whom  they  knew 
perhaps  might  soon  be  in  then-  power.  I  was  glad 
when  the  landlady  came  up  and  I  could  leave  the 
message  with  her. 

When  she  opened  the  door  to  me  next  day  at 
six  o'clock  I  knew  that  he  was  gone.  There  was 
about  her  that  sorrowful,  unmistakable  impor- 
tance, that  peculiar  mournful  excitement,  which 
hovers  over  houses  where  death  has  entered. 

"Yes,"  she  said,  " he  went  this  morning.  Never 
came  round  after  you  left.  Would  you  like  to 
see  him?" 

We  went  up. 

He  lay,  covered  with  a  sheet,  in  the  darkened 
275 


ULTIMA  THULE 

room.  The  landlady  pulled  the  window-curtains 
apart.  His  face,  as  white  now  almost  as  his 
silvery  head,  had  in  the  sunlight  a  radiance  like 
that  of  a  small,  bright  angel  gone  to  sleep.  No 
growth  of  hair,  such  as  comes  on  most  dead 
faces,  showed  on  those  frail  cheeks  that  were  now 
smooth  and  lineless  as  porcelain.  And  on  the 
sheet  above  his  chest  the  bullfinch  sat,  looking 
into  his  face. 

The  landlady  let  the  curtains  fall,  and  we  went 
out. 

"I've  got  the  cats  in  here" — she  pointed  to 
the  room  where  Mr.  Jackson  and  I  had  talked — 
"all  ready  for  that  gentleman  when  he  sends. 
But  that  little  bird,  I  don't  know  what  to  do; 
he  won't  let  me  catch  him,  and  there  he  sits.  It 
makes  me  feel  all  funny." 

It  had  made  me  feel  all  funny,  too. 

"He  hasn't  left  the  money  for  his  funeral. 
Dreadful,  the  way  he  never  thought  about  him- 
self. I'm  glad  I  kept  him,  though."  And,  not 
to  my  astonishment,  she  suddenly  began  to  cry. 

A  wire  was  sent  to  Mr.  Jackson,  and  on  the 
day  of  the  funeral  I  went  down  to  { Ultima 
Thule,'  Wimbledon,  to  see  if  he  had  carried  out 
his  promise. 

He  had.  In  the  grounds,  past  the  vinery,  an 
276 


ULTIMA  THULE 

outhouse  had  been  cleaned  and  sanded,  with 
cushions  placed  at  intervals  against  the  wall, 
and  a  little  trough  of  milk.  Nothing  could  have 
been  more  suitable  or  luxurious. 

"How's  that?"  he  said.  "I've  done  it  thor- 
oughly." But  I  noticed  that  he  looked  a  little 
glum. 

"The  only  thing,"  he  said,  "is  the  cats.  First 
night  they  seemed  all  right;  and  the  second, 
there  were  three  of  'em  left.  But  to-day  the 
gardener  tells  me  there's  not  the  ghost  of  one 
anywhere.  It's  not  for  want  of  feeding.  They've 
had  tripe,  and  liver,  and  milk — as  much  as  ever 
they  liked.  And  cod's  heads,  you  know — they're 
very  fond  of  them.  I  must  say  it's  a  bit  of  a 
disappointment  to  me." 

As  he  spoke,  a  sandy  cat  which  I  perfectly 
remembered,  for  it  had  only  half  its  left  ear,  ap- 
peared in  the  doorway,  and  stood,  crouching, 
with  its  green  eyes  turned  on  us;  then,  hearing 
Mr.  Jackson  murmur,  "Puss,  puss!"  it  ran  for 
its  life,  slinking  almost  into  the  ground,  and 
vanished  among  some  shrubs. 

Mr.  Jackson  sighed.  "Perversity  of  the 
brutes ! "  he  said.  He  led  me  back  to  the  house 
through  a  conservatory  full  of  choice  orchids. 
A  gilt  bird-cage  was  hanging  there,  one  of  the 

277 


ULTIMA  THULE 

largest  I  had  ever  seen,  replete  with  every  lux- 
ury the  heart  of  bird  could  want. 

"Is  that  for  the  bullfinch?"  I  asked  him. 

"Oh!  "he  said;  "  didn't  you  know?  The  little 
beggar  wouldn't  let  himself  be  caught,  and  the 
second  morning,  when  they  went  up,  there  he  lay 
on  the  old  chap's  body,  dead.  I  thought  it  was 
very  touchin'.  But  I  kept  the  cage  hung  up  for 
you  to  see  that  I  should  have  given  him  a  good 
time  here.  Oh,  yes,  '  Ultima  Thule '  would  have 
done  him  well!" 

And  from  a  bright  leather  case  Mr.  Jackson 
offered  me  a  cigar. 

The  question  I  had  long  been  wishing  to  ask 
him  slipped  out  of  me  then: 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  why  you  called  your 
house  'Ultima  Thule'?" 

"Why?"  he  said.  "Found  it  on  the  gate. 
Think  it's  rather  distingue*,  don't  you?"  and  he 
uttered  his  profound  chuckle. 

"First-rate.  The  whole  place  is  the  last  word 
in  comfort." 

"Very  good  of  you  to  say  so,"  he  said.  "I've 
laid  out  a  goodish  bit  on  it.  A  man  must  have 
a  warm  corner  to  end  his  days  in.  'Ultima 
Thule,'  as  you  say — it  isn't  bad.  There's  suc- 
cess about  it,  somehow." 

278 


ULTIMA  THULE 

And  with  that  word  in  my  ears,  and  in  my 
eyes  a  vision  of  the  little  old  fellow  in  his  'Ul- 
tima Thule,'  with  the  bullfinch  lying  dead  on  a 
heart  that  had  never  known  success,  I  travelled 
back  to  town. 


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